


The Cloak of Snow

by Autumn_Llleaves



Series: The Cloak of Snow [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Mixed Book and TV Canon, Slow Build, White Walkers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-03-15 05:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 87,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autumn_Llleaves/pseuds/Autumn_Llleaves
Summary: "Being in the wrong place at the wrong time" doesn't even begin to describe it. A peace treaty, one silly rumor and one unexpected guest was all it took for Arya Stark to suddenly find herself pressed into marriage to Tywin Lannister.





	1. Letters

**Author's Note:**

> This story is also getting posted in Russian on Ficbook: https://ficbook.net/readfic/6117269/16039910#part_content
> 
> That's my first try of Tywin/Arya, an idea I've been playing with for some time. The tagged slow build with the main pairing will be really, really, really slow.
> 
> Some of my Ficbook readers have complained I made Robb Stark look too stupid; if so, I try to mend it, and there will be no purposeful Robb-bashing. I picture him as a nice boy with loads and loads of unending stress, nothing worse.
> 
> The story contains elements from both the books (mostly) and the TV series, especially with the characters' age. Sansa, Arya and Joffrey have their ages from the show, the rest from the books. Apart from Arya being Tywin's cupbearer and Shae being Sansa's handmaiden, there are (for now, at least) no other major plot points from the show.

_Lysa (I can't write "dear", not even for propriety's sake),_

_How could you? Just answer this: how **could** you?_

_Catelyn Stark._

 

_Lord Stark,_

_We are at war, but I ask you to grant my nephew, Lyonel Frey, and his retinue free passage north the Kingsroad. I'm hearing many wild and alarming rumors about the White Walkers at the Wall, and I realize I have to check whether they have some grain of truth._

_On my side, I give you my word that Lyonel won't take part in battles or raid your lands and that of your allies._

_Tywin Lannister,_

_Lord of Casterly Rock,_

_Hand of the King and Warden of the West._

 

_Lord Lannister,_

_I regret to say that these rumors are perfectly true. My brother Jon Snow (perhaps you know that he's in the Night's Watch) has sent me a letter, where he told me everything in full detail. He doesn't know how long the Wall can last: the White Walkers are approaching, and more of them are coming, in spite of the watchmen's attempts to hold them back. Many men are lost, and they're begging for help._

_Lord Tywin, I think we need to make peace until the Walkers are defeated. There is no reason to fight for the throne, when we might be wiped out by these creatures at any moment._

_Let your nephew go and see for himself. Afterwards, I think we should meet for a peace treaty._

_Robb Stark,_

_King in the North._

 

_Dear Father,_

_I was moved to a luxurious guest room at Riverrun. Which tales should I believe – the ones about the Walkers, or about the peace? All Tullys and Tully-borns refuse to speak with me. At least the Blackfish lent me a raven, as an old friend._

_Aside from that, life's getting good. I look like a human being again._

_Jaime._

 

_Cersei,_

_Stop your hysterics, and don't send me any more messengers and ravens, which are too precious to be wasted like this. There **will** be a peace treaty. That's final. If Joffrey doesn't understand it, tell him he's an idiot._

_Your father_

_Tywin Lannister._

 

_Dearest Alysanne,_

_You've probably heard the news about the White Walkers. Just terrifying! I'd have preferred to fight the Starks and the Tullys, at least they are people like us. Well, I can't do anything about it. I don't want to go to the Wall and beyond, not at all. But Lord Tywin said everyone would go except for the bedridden._

_My men, though, are bursting with enthusiasm, imagining themselves as the future songs' heroes already. There's been no sickness, and the discipline is faultless: Alvert Hill is an excellent commander, I don't know why you were so set against his promotion. There was only one awkward episode: ten of our soldiers (all peasant-born, what else would you expect?) were caught telling bawdy stories about the Old Lion. You see, he's found himself a favorite among the servants, a young Northern girl who seems to never leave his side. Well, the boys began to say things, I understand... but what **utter fools** could babble about it right under the noses of the lord himself and Ser Kevan!_

_We gave them all a whipping (said it was for getting drunk). Serves them right. Or else they can bring such "fame" on the whole House Lefford, that I'd never be able to live it down._

_No other news for now. Maybe I could butter up Robb Stark at the treaty, so that he'd send me into a castle garrison somewhere in the Riverlands? The Young Wolf is rumored to be kinder than our lord._

_Kisses to you, Jon, Clayton and Mya. I hope you're all right. Have they delivered my purchases from Tyrosh?_

_With love,_

_Leo._

 

_Snow,_

_My sincere apologies for not believing you earlier. Cousin Lyonel has come from the Wall with a Walker's head, which he presented to the throne room. Some girls fainted. I couldn't eat for a day after, I retched up even wine. Lady Sansa had nightmares, they say. Joffrey is oddly thoughtful and hasn't touched his crossbow for three days. That's a blessing, at least._

_The alliance is a settled thing, it seems. Of course, if my father and your brother don't quarrel about something else before making the treaty._

_All right, we'll hope for the best, and you – hold on! I confess, I'm ashamed to write it down after having teased you there – **you** , men of the Watch, are our hope now._

_Tyrion Lannister._

 

_Tyrion, we need to do something, and quickly. If we don't find Arya Stark before they meet for the treaty, both Father and the Young Wolf will tear us to shreds._

 

_Cersei, if you continue to pass the notes with some servants who might be spying for anyone, they'll tear us a lot sooner. I'm doing everything I can do without announcing it to the whole kingdom. What else do you suggest? Writing to Father, telling him about it? "Search for Arya yourself, she just might have become the Ghost of Harrenhal"?_


	2. Chapter 2

“These grand lords,” grunted Cassy, the cook at Harrenhal, furiously cutting garlic. “One day they’re at war, you see, and need food for the army, the next they’re making peace, and I’m exhausting m’self again, Lady Whent never had such crowds in here…”

She sensed someone’s presence and turned around. She knew who it was already, though: only one servant in the castle could move so quietly. The strange girl in a boy’s clothing, Lord Lannister’s personal cupbearer. 

Cassy felt nauseous. 

“Kiddie…” she forced an ingratiating smile. “I was murmuring some nonsense, the old fool… Don’t tell m’lord, please!” with a shaky hand, she snatched a baked apple from the table and offered it to the girl. 

The latter smiled lightly, took it, and shook her heard:

”Don't worry, Cassy, I won’t. My lord told me to tell you that he wants roasted quails for dinner tonight.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” the cook nodded quickly. “I’m just getting ready with the boar for the guests… I’ll stuff it with some garlic and move on to the quails.”

”Don’t put in too much garlic, Robb Stark simply hates it,” said the cupbearer, chewing on the apple. 

Cassy stared at her:

”You’re from Winterfell?”

”From Barrowton,” the girl said calmly. “But the Starks visited it, and my mother told me a lot about it. She served at Lady Dustin’s table.”

“I see… Thank you,” just for safety Cassy handed her another apple. “Tell m’lord the quails will be ready in an hour.”

The girl gave a short nod and vanished. There was only a faint sound of running feet in the corridor outside. Or maybe Cassy had imagined it. 

 

Arya leaned on the cold black stone and caught her breath. She nearly revealed herself again, and to a dull old cook at that! On the other hand, her disguise wouldn’t be kept for long anyway. Lord Tywin had told her she’d be serving him and Robb during their meeting. 

But what would happen when Robb recognized her? Could she maybe run away to his camp right now? Oh, indeed. Even if by some miracle she got past the guards at Harrenhal, Robb wasn’t alone either. Most likely, his guards wouldn’t be the men from Winterfell who’d know Arya’s face. They wouldn’t let her say a word about being the King in the North’s sister. She’d be lucky if they simply throw her away. 

Or could she plead sick for the time of the meeting, and come to meet Robb later? But then, she wouldn’t avoid questions either. She didn’t want to think what would come of these questions. 

 

The peace came completely out of the blue. It all started with the mysterious murder of Petyr Baelish in the Riverlands. Arya didn’t think it would affect anything in any significant way: Baelish had no noble relations and no army. She hadn’t liked him much, and she only hoped he hadn’t had the time to tell the Queen’s men about her hiding place.

But then there came something fully unexpected. Aunt Lysa, who turned out to be Littlefinger’s lover, lost the last of her wits after his death. When she came to Bitterbridge for the funeral (nobody wanted to waste people and money to bring the body to the Fingers), the sobbing Lysa told everybody at length how clever and perceptive darling Petyr had been and how she had helped him. In particular, he had told her to poison her husband and put the blame on the Lannisters.

“Because of that rotten woman, Catelyn Stark kidnapped Tyrion and her son captured Jaime!” when he learned of it all, Lord Tywin stormed with rage – and it wasn’t something you saw every day. “I’ve underestimated Baelish, I admit it, but what a bitch this Arryn has been!”

He was too furious and his bannermen too scared to notice that half of their wine was spilled on the table. Arya’s hands were trembling with shock and disgust.

Aunt Lysa! How could she? Arya didn’t know her personally, but even she knew the Tully words – _Family, Duty, Honor_. Because of some sick Baelish, Aunt Lysa had spat on her House’s motto: killed her husband, deceived her own sister, turned everyone against the people who, though definitely not honest and innocent, had nothing to do with Jon Arryn’s death… come to think of it, she was one of the main reasons for the last months’ bloodbath across the Kingdoms!

Finally, having calmed down a little, Tywin noticed the dark blotches on the table:

“Girl, wipe it away now and refill the goblets… why are you shaking like a leaf?”

“I’m just angry that the whole war was started by one foolish woman,” Arya said, feeling her heart freeze with fear: what if he guessed she was this woman’s relation?

“I think everyone’s angry about it,” as he saw her hurrying for a cloth and cleaning the table, he lost interest in her and turned to his brother. “Kevan, I’ve got more letters from the North, many people are telling me about White Walkers, and I’m not sure it’s someone’s drunk ravings anymore…”

On that day, the possibility of a truce in the War of the Five Kings was mentioned for the first time. A week later, Tywin decided to send some trusted Lannister man to the North, to check if the White Walkers had really appeared.

As Arya understood from the letters that came to the castle, Tywin’s nephew Lyonel Frey got the task and left Casterly Rock for the Wall, and Tywin sent practically all of Harrenhal’s ravens to the lords of the Riverlands and the North, asking them to grant Lyonel passage.

To his surprise, Robb (who also received such a raven) answered with a serious and almost friendly letter: as it turned out, he had already got news from Jon, who confirmed that it was true, the creatures unheard of for thousands of years were appearing beyond the Wall, and the Night’s Watch was having big trouble standing against them. Stannis Baratheon was bringing relief forces, but right now the Watch was going through very difficult times.

“Had the northmen been trying to make us panic, why would they write each other about the Walkers?” said Tywin when he read Robb’s letter. He didn’t say anything else, but it was clear that he was starting to believe the monstrous news, even if his mind refused to accept it.

 

“Girl,” Lord Tywin called her. Arya, who had been finishing the last quail, with his permission, turned her head:

“My lord?”

“What do you Northerners say about the White Walkers?” he looked a bit awkward, asking about what he had recently believed to be stupid folk tales.

“Eight thousand years ago their armies came from the Lands of Always Winter and nearly conquered the whole of Westeros during the Long Night,” Arya answered reflexively, feeling the absurdity of the situation – a Stark girl telling ancient legends to the ruthless Old Lion! “The last hero allied with the children of the forest, and with their help, people managed to win the battle – the Battle of the Dawn, as it was called later, because after it the night receded and the sun shone again, and there were no such long nights or dreadful frosts anymore. To block the Walkers’ way south for once and for all, our ancestor Brandon the Builder called the giants for help and built the Wa…” she froze, mouth open, as she realized what she had said.

Lord Tywin, deep in thoughts about the White Walkers, perhaps wouldn’t have noticed her slip, but when she grew silent, he raised his head:

“What? Go on, I’m listening… Wait, how did you say it? ‘ _Our_ ancestor’?”

Arya couldn’t move. Maybe she should have boldly pressed her point to the last: “I’m really a Dustin bastard, and the Dustins are kin to the Starks, that’s why my lineage is traced to the Builder”… but she hadn’t any force left. Anyway, what was the difference? Robb was coming, and it was better if she was revealed now.

“Indeed,” Lord Tywin said. “A well-read stonemason. Killed by his loyalty. Very smart. And Cersei was beside herself to convince me you’re both in King’s Landing.”

Arya silently waited for whatever would follow. Tywin didn’t need any tortures or threats – his heavy glare made her feel bound hand and foot.

“One thing really amazes me: why have you worked here so obediently all this time? I would have expected someone like you to slit our throats during one of the meetings. Especially since you’ve always had knives at your disposal.”

“I’ve thought of it,” Arya murmured. “But I decided not to do it. Even had I succeeded, there’d still have been Clegane and his brutes, with nobody to restrain them, and I wouldn’t have been able to fight them, of course.”

Tywin gave her an approving nod. She didn’t tell him about the killings of the Tickler, Amory Lorch and Weese – he must have almost forgotten them already, and she was still ashamed she gave Jaqen such petty names. Well, she wouldn’t have asked for the murders of Tywin or Kevan, but some monster like the Mountain or Joffrey, that was different…

There was a loud knock on the door.

“Milord, I beg your pardon! Robb Stark came early with several men, and he says he’s got urgent news about the White Walkers!”

Arya sat down. This was too much! She didn’t have time to prepare herself… what would she now say to her brother?

There was noise coming from outside.

“Let him in, or he’ll break through the door,” Tywin said.

Hardly a minute had passed when, indeed, Robb appeared at the doorstep: matured, with whiskers and a small beard growing, but otherwise the same, her dear eldest brother. Arya glowed with happiness, for a moment forgetting about Tywin and the strangeness of the situation.

“Please, forgive me, Lord Lannister, I truly didn’t want to arrive three days early, but a raven came…” and then Robb, who had been gesticulating excitedly, finally understood whom he saw.

“Robb, oh, I’ve missed you so much!” Arya cried, barely keeping herself from rushing into his arms. “You see, it just happens that…”

Robb paled and even took a step back.

“I should have known the Lannisters can’t be honest,” he said quietly. “I was coming here, certain that my lady sisters are in the capital, treated like hostages, but still like noble ladies.”

Arya had an idea to tell him she had just come from there to greet him, but his next phrase stopped her:

“And now I learn that Lord Lannister,” Robb cringed, “ _spends time_ with his cupbearer… whom I find to be my own sister.”

He quickly walked through the room and scooped Arya up:

“My poor one… what you have suffered… I had no suspicions at all…”

“Are you hinting I took your sister as my servant and degraded her in every possible way – just for the sake of making your life a bit worse?” asked Tywin, who had been calmly watching the scene. “It was a trick Cersei would like. Not me.”

“Robb, I passed off as a commoner, my lord hadn’t recognized me until I accidentally revealed myself today!” Arya said. She buried her face in Robb’s fur cloak, almost feeling the familiar smell of fresh snow and weirwoods.

“My lord,” he repeated bitterly. “You seem to have been taught the necessary words…”

“Me? Taught?” she exclaimed angrily. “Words?”

“Lord Stark, you obviously don’t know your younger sister…”

“And you know her very well, right?”

“Well enough to understand that she won’t be taught anything she doesn’t want. Be reasonable. You can take your sword and stab me, if it makes you feel better – I’ve only got a short dagger here, you’ll probably defeat me. And then what? We’ve alarmed the whole kingdom about these Walkers, speaking about an alliance against a common enemy, and you’ll just set off another round of our civil wars.”

“How can you talk about alliances when my sister is dishonored?”

“What? You’ve confused me with the late Baelish? If her honor has been tainted somehow, I’ve had no part in it.”

“It hasn’t been tainted,” Arya huffed. Robb put her down, and she looked him in the eyes. “Please, believe me. You can call a maester to check it.”

“There are ways to make it look clear for a maester,” Robb sighed, looking away.

“I understand that the shock has slowed down your brains, but don’t turn our meeting into a market brawl,” Tywin was speaking calmly, but Arya, who had learned his ways enough, knew his anger was already boiling. “I didn’t know what your sister looked like. My daughter wrote to me that Arya Stark was in King’s Landing. Right before your arrival my cupbearer revealed her true name by accident. That’s all. And I don’t have a habit of amusing myself with unflowered servant girls.”

Robb swallowed:

“Lord Tywin, I can’t believe you. After all I’ve heard of you, it’s impossible that you wouldn’t recognize my sister over all these months – yes, your servants have told me! – that she’s been… working for you. The treaty… especially considering what I’ve heard from Jon, we must go through with it. But I won’t let the slight against my sister rest so easily.”

Arya wanted to go somewhere and have a long loud cry, which she hadn’t done since she was a toddler. Tears were pooling in her eyes – of the joy from seeing her brother again, of the hurt she felt at his suspicions (it was fine he didn’t believe Lord Tywin, she wouldn’t have trusted the latter without caution either, but he didn’t trust her!), and simply from the overall exhaustion.

She forced herself to sit by Robb’s side and listen to their talk. Things weren’t looking good for her in any case.


	3. Chapter 3

“Marriage?” Tywin repeated. 

The Starks’ notions of honor and duty maybe weren’t entirely useless, but right now he would have preferred to do without them. The whole story could still be hushed up without trouble! Nobody cared about a common cupbearer. She could disappear. And Arya Stark could suddenly appear somewhere in the Riverlands.

Robb Stark would have publicly announced he had found his sister, for example, on his way from Harrenhal to the North. Tywin would have given one of his mercenaries for the role of a brave knight who rescued the noble maiden from the capital. They would have possibly made a song of it. 

But Robb, being a Stark, refused even to consider such a staging. 

“She is twelve,” Tywin said slowly. “I have an heir.”

”Two,” the young man said. Arya grimaced and pushed his elbow, even though it was too late. 

“It is for me to decide who’ll inherit my lands. Anyway – I don’t need marriage, especially to a girl her age. By the way, your own vassals won’t cheer for you if you give me your own sister’s hand.”

“I’m not cheerful either,” Stark said grimly. “But it’s a matter of honor.”

“Robb, how many times do I have to tell you – my honor is safe!” the girl interrupted. “If you don’t like it that I served at Harrenhal, tell everyone you’ve found me in the woods, and nobody needs to know!”

Where did she get brains like these? If all the Starks had been able to think like her, there wouldn’t have been a war at all! With some pride, Tywin guessed she must have been influenced by his company. Although, even when he had just arrived at Harrenhal, he selected her for her wit. 

“Arya, calm down.”

“Calm down, indeed! You’re saying I should wed a man forty-something years my senior – my lord, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth! – and I can't even protest!”

“Of course you’d refuse, but if Lord Tywin isn’t keen either…” Robb thought a while. “As a matter of fact, I’ve already arranged it with Walder Frey that you would marry his son Elmar when you both come of age. If they take you now, your honor won’t be blemished…”

If Tywin hadn’t known the Young Wolf wouldn’t think of such tricks if his life depended on it, he would have thought the Frey arrangement was a bluff. Panic showed on Arya’s face, she gave him a considering look, and it was clear that becoming Lady Lannister immediately grew into a more appealing choice.

The best way would have been to stand his ground, show Stark that these ideas of his are rubbish, and finally move on to the really pressing matter of the alliance against the Walkers.

But something kept him.

If he stayed silent now, the girl would be married to Elmar Frey – certainly, the Lord of the Crossing would agree to have the wedding tomorrow if needs be! The bride’s supposedly besmirched honor wouldn’t be a trouble for him – the old man would jump at the chance to link himself to a Great House. Again.

…And what would happen to the girl at the Twins? Genna had shown her husband his place soon enough, but, first, Genna had been older, second, after the wedding she stayed at the Rock, where that beetle Emmon is afraid to breathe without permission. While the girl is small, in years and in height, and she’s got the Stark recklessness sitting deep inside of her. She’d try to beat sense into this Elmar of hers, or she’d even stand up to Lord Walder himself. Then it would be one of the two: either they manage to break her or bring her to her death.

Nothing would remain of Arya Stark, who liked stories about Queen Visenya and tricked the whole of Harrenhal, including himself.

“Lord Robb, may I speak with my… potential bride alone?”

Robb looked at him uncertainly.

“If you think her innocence already tainted, another quarter of an hour won’t do much harm.”

 

When her brother left, leaving the door half-opened, however, Tywin said:

”Girl, I think you see what you’ve got yourself into.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Elmar Frey is Lord Walder’s son number twenty-odd, so, if you marry him, you’ll spent the rest of your life at the Twins, fighting for the old man’s inheritance.”

“I wouldn’t have married Elmar if he had been firstborn!” Arya cringed. She had heard enough of the Freys and didn’t want even to meet them.

“So you agree to Lord Robb’s first suggestion? Good. Let’s talk it over right now, so that you won’t have any illusions. I don’t love you, and, whatever your brother might have thought up about my secret perversions, you won’t be warming my bed for the next few years. But someone like you can achieve a lot as Lady Lannister. You can rise to the level of your favorite Visenya… if only without dragons.”

Arya let out her breath. Yes, she had already been fairly certain that Lord Tywin wouldn’t force her to do her wifely duty right away – had he liked girls her age and her particularly, he could have sated his lust a hundred times while she had been posing as a commoner. Still, she was relieved when he said he didn’t desire her, at least for now.

“Judging by what we hear from the Wall, I will have to lead our army there against the White Walkers. In my absence you’ll live at Casterly Rock with my sister Genna – I think you two will get along – and with Dorna, my brother’s wife.”

“And if you don’t return from the North?” Arya asked straight. Tywin once more marveled at her fearlessness – even his commanders wouldn’t dare to hint at such an outcome. On the other hand, messages from the Wall – including Jon Snow’s letter, just received by Robb, about the Night King whom Jon actually glimpsed among the attacking Walkers – were written in such a tone that any fool would see how bad it was and how slim the humans’ hopes were now.

“If Jaime doesn’t renounce the white cloak, my heir will be Kevan, and his children after him. For safety, his younger sons will stay at the Rock.”

“So, if I’m widowed, my fate will be decided by your brother, and if anything happens to him as well – by two boys?” the girl said. “Doesn’t look too bright.”

Arya really didn’t want to become dependent on Kevan Lannister. No, she liked him as a person – the round-faced man with a kindly smile was very nice towards the servants. But his politics, as she had gathered from the meetings she had observed, could pretty much be summarized as: “Tywin, I completely agree with you.”

“You can think so if you like. But, first, I’m still alive, and I’m not so easy to kill, second, Kevan and his sons are smarter than the combined mass of Freys and their bastards who would have ordered you around at the Twins.”

Clenching her lips into a tight line, Arya nodded.

“You agree with me? Excellent. When I return to the Rock, I expect to hear: that you have familiarized yourself with the castle, that you’ve become a proper lady for our bannermen and – yes – that you have learned all their names, words and sigils. You will be studying with the maester…”

Arya couldn’t resist:

“At least not with a septa, thanks for that.”

She got a cold piercing glare in response. Not many people dared to interrupt Lord Tywin.

However, after a long enough pause for Arya to start worrying about her cheekiness, he explained:

“In times like these, understanding of medicine and of ravenry will be more helpful for you than poetry and embroidery. Besides, our Maester Creylen has a link of Valyrian steel. Do you know what it means?”

“ _Our_ Maester Luwin has one too,” Arya shrugged with an air that suggested that maesters with such links sat on every corner, even though Maester Luwin had told her that very few could study the higher mysteries.

“Then you realize that – with what’s going on in your North – such knowledge has also become… not useless. Do you understand what you are required to do?” he finished sharply.

“Learn to rule the Westerlands, memorize the sigils and attend the maester’s lessons. Right, my lord?”

Instead of replying, Tywin walked to the door:

“Lord Stark! You can come back, and we’ll discuss the final resolution.”

 

 _A peace!_ This word was the sweetest music to Sansa’s ears. Even though she knew – from the worried talking of the courtiers and especially from the loud arguments of Lord Tyrion and Queen Cersei – that there will be no peace in truth, because the White Walkers were storming the Wall, and nobody could predict the outcome of that war.

Still, a Lannister-Stark truce meant Sansa would return to her family, her beloved family, and nobody would be taunting and torturing her like Joffrey and his lickspittle knights had done. No one would call her a traitor’s daughter anymore, and she wouldn’t have to force herself to speak of her devotion to the King.

By the way, though Joffrey had a predictably stormy reaction to the idea of allying with the Starks, he fully realized the threat coming from the Walkers. A messenger from the Wall brought a real head of such a creature – Sansa had had nightmares all night: the white hair, the unearthly grin, eyes, like blue glass…

“Lady Sansa?” after a knock, the door opened to reveal Lord Tyrion, one of the few who had treated her like a human being. “There’s been a raven from Harrenhal: the treaty is signed.”

Sansa jumped up with the sudden joy, hardly believing it had really happened:

“Oh, my lord! It’s wonderful!”

“But that’s not all. There was another piece of news in the letter. You can laugh or cry, at your choice. Your sister was found alive.”

“Arya?!” the girl exclaimed. “Arya lives? How did she run so far away? Where was she found? Is she all right?”

“As far as I’ve gathered, Yoren of the Night’s Watch rescued her and took her with the recruits, dressed as a boy, but their party was captured by the Mountain’s Men and brought to Harrenhal. And…” Tyrion paused for a better effect, “during the last months, while we’ve turned the city upside down in our search for Lady Arya, she has been serving as my father’s cupbearer!”

“And she got through it alive?” Sansa blurted out and instantly regretted it:

“Oh, my lord, it was a joke.”

“Don’t worry, my lady, I’m dumbfounded myself. But it’s not the end! One of the points of our Houses’ treaty… well, I’ll soon have to call you Aunt.”

“Aunt? You mean…”

“In a most exact sense. My father is marrying your sister.”

Sansa fell into her chair:

“Arya? Him?”

“Precisely.”

“But… how…”

“As I understand, your brother considered her virtue defiled. Of course, I can’t know for sure, my father isn’t very open with me, but, my lady, I think it’s fiddlesticks.”

 _Now Arya’s caught too,_ Sansa thought sadly, remembering her reckless sister who didn’t want even to dream of marriage. _And with one of them! Poor thing, even Lord Tyrion would have been better for her than his father! Lord Tyrion at least pities us!_

“Will I… will I be able to see Arya?”

“I can’t promise you. Until the war with the Walkers ends, you’ll be sent to Riverrun and Arya to the Rock.”

Sansa was horrified:

“The wedding’s so soon?”

“Your brother insisted,” the dwarf shrugged. “It’s quite possible they’re already married… sweet aunt.”

Sansa’s lips trembled. She had wanted to return, if just for the moment, to her Winterfell childhood, to ask her sister’s forgiveness… But what happened couldn’t be reversed. Arya was – or would shortly become – Tywin Lannister’s wife, and she wouldn’t be able to return to her family, even if she got widowed. Oh, Arya was so willful – what if she tried to usurp the power at the Rock, like Ellyn Reyne before her? And in his youth, in the times of the Reyne-Tarbeck rebellion, the Old Lion had been _nicer_ than he was now. And the unruly Arya would have to obey him, show him respect at least, share his bed – such thoughts made Sansa shudder with disgust. 

“Really, everything’s not so bad,” Tyrion took her hand encouragingly. “If Father agreed to marry her at all – and if he hadn’t agreed, ten Robb Starks wouldn’t have made him do it! – there must be something about Lady Arya that captured his attention.”

“Yes,” Sansa tried to smile, even though all she wanted was to cry. “I can surely believe that. My little sister’s unusual. Always has been.”


	4. Chapter 4

Arya couldn't believe it that only this morning everything had been in order. All right, "order" had a relative meaning – still, had someone in the morning told her that in the evening she'd be married to Tywin Lannister, she would have thought it a very bad joke.

Thankfully, nobody uttered a word about nonsense such as a feast, dances, or a bedding – there were many idiots in Harrenhal, but no one was that suicidal. There was a ceremony in the sept with some hurriedly found cloaks, a modest supper, where Tywin and Robb continued to discuss the upcoming war against the Others – and that was all. 

After the supper, Tywin loudly ordered the servants to prepare a bath and gestured for Arya to follow him. Robb's face grew brick red.

"You should have simply believed me," Arya said reproachfully. "Now we'll have to accept it as it is. Well, everything has a good side to it – at least I know Lord Tywin, I could have been given to somebody whom I had never seen before the wedding..."

When she came to her husband's chamber, an enormous bath was ready in there. Tywin was sitting at a table, pointedly looking away from her, and attentively reading some papers.

"What's this for, my lord?" Arya asked carefully, nodding towards the bath.

"For you. First, I don't think you've washed yourself properly after you ran away from King's Landing. Second, many realize that your supposed dishonor is just crazy talk. They might want to see proof of the marriage's fulfilment."

Arya's face twisted in disgust.

"But with a bath, it won't be so easy to check as with a bed."

"I could have cut my hand and smeared the blood..."

"Nonsense. Where have you heard all these sugary love ballads? Do you want to risk a cut swelling and festering? Get into the bath and don't be a fool. You see I'm not even looking at you."

Arya chuckled nervously: she couldn't stand it when she was treated like a child. To hear her husband speaking to her like that was three times as hurtful.

 _Well, he speaks a lot sharper with those he believes to be_ complete  _idiots,_ she consoled herself, taking off her wedding cloak that had been remade from a cloak of Robb's.

The water was hot, even scalding, and smelled of honey. Arya's cheeks burned when she got inside, but soon she relaxed, as she saw Tywin was still working with his letters and hadn't even shot a glance in her direction.

She had needed a bath: the clear water quickly became yellowish with all the dirt. Arya had always given cleanliness less thought than, for example, Sansa, but her life in a commoner's guise made her think again about some things. In particular, now she knew what a wonderful feeling it was to scrub dust and dirt off herself. 

As she got out of the bath, she saw a linen nightgown on the bed, which was, judging by the size, prepared for her. 

"Get dressed and go to bed," said Tywin, still not turning around. "I'll still be working for some time."

 _Naturally_ , he didn't even ask her if she'd be bothered by the candlelight... Although, Arya thought, putting on the nightgown, after such a long day she wouldn't have been bothered by a shining ballroom chandelier.

The moment her head touched the pillow, she fell asleep.

 

Tywin, meanwhile, was busy with one of the things he hated most: he was writing to his children. Each one separately – the Mountains of the Moon would sooner flatten than Cersei and Tyrion would be honest with each other...

_See to it that the elder Stark girl is safe and sound, and leaves with a good retinue. Don't think of allowing Joffrey to "make her pay" for the truce, or whichever way he puts it. Do everything to secure the Dornish alliance and send Myrcella there._

This was written on both sheets. After thinking a while, he added for Tyrion:

_Separate the gold cloaks and all men able to fight into those who'll stay to guard the city and those who'll go to the Wall. Don't you dare to send me a dozen of greybeards!_

Had he given the task to Cersei, the greybeards would have been what he'd have eventually got. As every stupid woman (and Tywin labeled most women as stupid), she thought only of herself and her children, and failed miserably at thinking about anything else. She had opposed the truce to the last: first she insisted the Walkers weren't real, then she said the Walkers would wipe out the Starks and leave more place for the Lannisters...

 _Go to the Wall with the army you gather_ , he wrote further to Tyrion.  _Nothing will raise their spirit like the presence of a Lannister._

"And I hope the Walkers bump you off," he mumbled aloud.

"What?" a sleepy voice sounded from the bed.

Tywin gritted his teeth. Damn the Young Wolf and his idiotic notions of honor! Engrossed in his work, he had completely forgotten he was no longer alone in his own room!

...Well, after all, it was only for a single night.

"Nothing," he said. "I'd try to get some sleep if I were you. Tomorrow at dawn you're leaving for the Rock."

"Already?" Arya sat up.

"Do you even remember what we've been talking about today?"

"Yes, but I thought we'll stay here for several more days..."

"Why, may I ask? The earlier we march for the Wall, the better. You have nothing to do at Harrenhal; the Rock is much more comfortable."

"Can't I go too, with the ar..."

"Maybe Arya Stark could run around with a sword, in some peasants' company, but it's unacceptable for Lady Lannister. All right, stop chattering. I've still got work to do."

 _Quite an unexpected turn, but it can be used for our good. One of the alliance's conditions, offered by the Young Wolf, was my marriage to his sister Lady Arya,_ he wrote on both sheets with a deep sigh, and began to describe what had happened at Harrenhal over the course of that day. 

The girl seemed to have fallen asleep again. Without her talking (mostly naive, but not without some sensible thoughts) and the grim look in her big eyes, so strange in a child, short for her age, she seemed very small – Tywin felt extremely uneasy to lie by her side. He did think it silly or at least excessive to be overly soft and kind with children, he could, sometimes, sacrifice children's lives, but to be intimate with a girl who hadn't even flowered... he would never have thought of it.

Luckily, the bed was wide, and, besides, Arya got so wrapped up in blankets that she couldn't have rolled close to him even accidentally – at all times, they would be separated by several layers of wool and fur.

 _It must have been a long time since she slept in a really warm bed,_ Tywin thought with some pity.

 

"Get up."

Arya jerked up, not understanding at first where she was and what had happened.

Lord Tywin, already fully dressed, was looking down at her.

_What... why? Oh, yes, Robb... the treaty... the wedding!_

It hadn't been a dream! Shocked, Arya stared at her (it was horrible to think of it) husband and only now began to realize how unambiguous and irrevocable it was.

"Daisy will help you to dress," he nodded towards a servant girl at the doorstep, whom Arya slightly knew. "There'll be breakfast in an hour, and in three hours you're going to the Rock."

_Me! Married to a Lannister! To Tywin Lannister! Where were my brains, when I... oh, of course, the alternative was a Frey. Robb, what have you done?!_

Going to that Rock, too! A glorious future, indeed – while most of the men would be fighting, she would have to sit there in the company of Genna Lannister and other people from this golden-haired family. 

"Get up now. I won't be repeating it again," Tywin's voice had a steely edge to it.

Giving him a murderous look, Arya sat on the bed, and the servant rushed to her. Seeing that his wife had obeyed, Tywin gave a curt nod and left.

 

It was strange to sit at the very same table that she had been laying and serving for so many months. Even stranger was the feeling of her dress – naturally, a red one, naturally, embroidered with yellow, thankfully, not with gold. Daisy made Arya put on a headband and a ruby bracelet as well.

"Forgive me, m'lady, m'lord's orders," she squeaked when Arya tried to protest, and the girl gave up and put on the jewels, so that the servant wouldn't have problems later.

_It's odd, really. Only yesterday I ran into Daisy on the stairs, and she grumbled: "Watch where you're going, you muddler". And now it's all bowing and m'ladys._

The jewelry, of course, wasn't some silly spoiling on Tywin's part, even less a wedding present: Arya understood it. She would have to go across half of the continent, few people knew of Lord Tywin's marriage, and practically nobody would recognize Arya's face – so she had to be dressed well in the colors of her current House, so that in case of anything, people wouldn't dare to harm Lady Lannister.

"How are you?" Robb whispered when she entered the room.

She wanted to say exactly what she thought of him for arranging this marriage, but now, her head refreshed after the sleep, Arya realized, with a terrifying clearness, that it could turn out to be her last meeting with her brother.

"All is well," she hugged him tight.  _Everything is absolutely great, save for the fact that I've been married to Tywin Lannister, that I won't see my family for I don't know how long and that I have to go to the Rock that I don't need at all!_

"Forgive me, sister, please. I wouldn't have married you off like this, but the honor of the Princess of the North..."

"Oh, Robb, let's not talk of it, please! Better tell me how's Mother, how's everyone... I haven't once spoken to you in private!"

"A part of our army went to Winterfell, to make the North ready to fight the Walkers. Right on time," Robb swallowed. "Theon tried to attack Winterfell with his pirates."

"Theon?" Arya gasped.

She had never been very friendly with the ironborn boy, but she had always considered him almost one of the family – he had been such a close friend of Robb and Jon! Had he really turned his cloak the moment Robb let him go, as if all the years spent in Winterfell didn't matter?

"I can't see why he did it," Robb continued with a painful look. "Have we offended him so much in some way? Would they have respected him, had he taken Winterfell? Yes, he was a prisoner of sorts, but we've treated him like one of us! Had he lived with someone like Tywin Lannister, he would have been happy to pick crumbs from the floor!"

"Robb, so his attack didn't succeed?"

"Thankfully, my men arrived just in time! Bran and Rickon are both well..." Robb hesitated. "I mean, Bran... you understand... he still doesn't get up and will probably never walk, but the ironborn didn't get him. I've ordered to send them to Riverrun, to Mother."

"Why didn't you tell me about it yesterday?" Arya asked.

"So that Lannister would learn he has another potential ally against the Starks? Balon Greyjoy – we were lucky with that – sent Asha and Theon to the North without warning, so the word about their attacks hasn't spread to the South yet."

"'Against the Starks' – Robb, I beg you! Lord Tywin is more worried about the Walkers, just as you are!"

Robb moved slightly back, frowning. It wasn't hard for her to guess the reason:

"Listen, this wedding was  _your_ idea! What do you want now, when everything's said and done? For me to agree –  _oh, yes, Tywin Lannister is so very villainous_? For me to play the two of you against each other? Then he'll certainly put me under lock and key at the Rock till the end of times."

There was remorse in her brother's face again:

"Arya... Arya, please, I'm so sorry!" he looked lost and scared and suddenly was a boy all over again, her dear eldest brother from the Winterfell days. "Myself... I've only wanted the best for our family and the North... I'm such a dreadful king!"

"Now, you've never lost a battle."

"Arya, I'm not trying to play on your pity," he smiled faintly. "I've won every time on the battlefield, true enough, but I'm terrible at kingship. On one hand, your honor's safe and the Lannisters are bound to us, on the other... Oh, and the Freys are going to be furious!"

"Just describe me to them. In detail," the girl laughed. "Walder Frey will reward you with gold for saving them from me. You should worry about someone worthy of worrying, not the Freys!"

At that moment, Lord Tywin appeared.

"Your retinue is ready," he told her.

"I hope it's not the Mountain's Men?" Arya asked immediately.

"Nothing like it. Sixty good men under Ser Werton Algood," seeing her confused look, Tywin added sternly:

"My bannermen, a golden wreath on a blue field with a gold border, the castle's Silvermine, and you ought to know it by heart."

Arya lowered her eyes in shame and pretended to be very interested in the plate with small boiled fishes that a servant had just brought. When Tywin treated her like a stubborn child in front of Robb, she was ready to just disappear.


	5. Chapter 5

Tywin and Robb had to stay in Harrenhal for another several days – an army couldn't march instantly, even if people were packing at lightning speed. Whatever – even if they had been leaving at the same time as Arya, they were going in a completely different direction.

Forgetting her grudges, her pride and everything else, she tearfully held her arms around Robb, incoherently asking something about saying hello to Jon and Mother – she hardly understood herself what she was mumbling.

"Now, little sister, take care of yourself..."

"Oh, you be careful!"

Grey Wind, who had been living in the abandoned kennels of Harrenhal the whole time, whined quietly and rubbed his moist nose against her arm.

This was followed by a much colder and more formal goodbye from her husband.

"My lady."

"My lord."

He kissed her – to be exact, he lightly touched her cheek with his lips, just near the corner of her mouth, like the day before in the sept. Both times it didn't excite her in the slightest – it was just a ceremonial gesture.

"Don't do anything foolish," he said. "I've sent Genna two ravens, for safety, I hope she'll make everything ready for your arrival. Don't go any farther than Lannisport! No self-willed trips to King's Landing or anything of that nature! And don't you dare waste money!"

Arya listened to his condescending voice and grew more and more angry. She dreamed of coming to Casterly Rock and purposefully holding splendid balls every day, until the Westerlands would run out of gold. The dream was impossible, of course, but a pleasant one. 

"I hope you'll return safe and sound, my lord," she had to admit it was the truth. It was better to be Tywin's wife than to find herself, as his widow, a useless puppet of some unknown Lannisters, led by Genna. 

"Hm," Tywin said. "If Cersei comes to the Rock and tries to make a scene, don't you forget, girl, that you have the higher position. She has only the title of Queen Regent which really doesn't give any single right. You, however, are the Hand's wife."

 _A loving father he is, playing his children against a wife he's not too fond of himself!_ Arya wasn't planning to cower before Cersei, but she was shocked by Tywin's attitude.

"All right, my lord."

He gave her a nod and turned to Robb, showing her that the seeing-off was over.

Arya was already getting into the wagon – her home for the two upcoming weeks – when she was approached by Ser Kevan Lannister.

"Could you take this – for my wife?" he asked, handing her a letter. "There's not a single raven free, and I haven't seen Dorna since the beginning of the war..."

"With pleasure," Arya took it.

"Don't be too sad, honestly, my lady," Kevan spoke quietly, but with a fervency that was unusual for him. "My brother... he's a difficult man, no doubt, but he's extremely clever, he does everything in his power for our family's good, and he does respect you. I know him better than anyone, you can believe me."

Arya listened to him with mixed feelings. She saw that he was honest and really wanted to cheer her up, but she couldn't quite let go of the feeling that he saw his brother in a much too rosy light.

"Well..." Kevan saw she wasn't in the mood to hear praises of Tywin. Or maybe he had to hurry to get back to the soldiers. "You'll give the letter to Dorna, then, won't you? And give my baby Janei a hug from me..."

She looked at him with astonishment. All the time she had known the Lannisters, she hadn't suspected some of them could genuinely love each other – but Kevan, when talking about his family, smiled sadly in the same way her father had done, when in King's Landing he remembered about Mother, Robb, Bran and Rickon.

 _And Maester Luwin said that Ser Kevan married that Dorna of his when she was a hostage for her family's unpaid debts. And that he keeps her under lock and key._ After making Kevan's acquaintance, Arya had already doubted the truth of such tales, but now she knew for certain: such a man couldn't abuse his wife in any way.

"Goodbye, Ser Kevan, I'm sure you'll be fierce in battle," she smiled warmly. She could have used such a Lannister as her ally – it was a pity he was also leaving north.

"May your journey be pleasant, my lady."

The door closed. Hooves clattered as the cavalcade sped away from the ugly black ruins of Harrenhal. Arya recalled how, when she had seen it the first time, she had been very impressed and ready to believe all these legends about curses and ghosts. Now, though... now it seemed almost cozy to her. Not like home – only Winterfell was her home. But Harrenhal, where Arya knew every corner, every stone and every hole, looked an immovable stronghold in the face of the entire fear and uncertainty. 

They hadn't let her even say goodbye to the friends that were left there... Gendry, Hot Pie, Jaqen... What would become of them? She wouldn't even be able to send them a raven.

Her heart clenched, but her eyes, despite her hopes, stayed dry. The day before she had wanted to cry, but mostly from her fury, but in a real misery, the tears had vanished.

 

"You'll have to mend your relations with the Freys – they won't like it that the girl was taken from under their noses."

"It was a matter of honor," said Robb.

"Sometimes Jaime says smart things," Tywin told him thoughtfully. "He always complains that he has given too many vows and words which constantly clash with one another. I think the two of you will find something in common to talk of."

"Fine," the young man said. "I'll manage it somehow with the Freys. I'll choose one of their girls. The King in the North himself is more important to them than a princess. The main thing is to survive this winter."

He looked out of the window – the wagons and horses were still visible.

"I'm glad that at least Arya would be at the Rock and not at Riverrun," he confessed suddenly. "Riverrun is easy to reach when the ice is thick, and it's farther to the north."

"I hope it's not a hint you'd send more of your family and bannermen there. Casterly Rock is not an inn."

Robb hadn't the least intention to suggest it. To be honest, he was more trying to convince himself that the marriage he had arranged wasn't as bad as it seemed, and searched for any advantages in Arya's new status.

"Do you like my sister at least?" he asked quietly.

"Lord Stark," Tywin refused to call him by any other title, "listen to yourself and see what balderdash you're saying."

"Is there some chance that you'll lo..."

"Lord Stark, your sister will be surrounded with every care, if that's what's worrying you. Moreover, she'll have excellent company. My sister Genna is very much like her, just as wilful and blunt, and Dorna, Kevan's wife, will cuddle her and fuss over her."

 _Arya is an interesting girl, certainly more interesting than most of these fools around me. If I return from this war, I'll gladly teach her everything she needs and make her a worthy heiress. She's very smart and resilient already... Besides, she's one of the very few who could make me laugh..._ These thoughts, naturally, he kept to himself.

Maybe in a few years, if they managed to crush the Walkers, the grown-up girl would give him a good son. As much as Tywin wanted to turn a blind eye to Jaime's faults, there was no running away from the truth: Jaime was a warrior and not a ruler. Now he might have been changed after his long captivity. As for Tyrion, Tywin was firm here: he'd rather leave the Rock to Kevan, Lancel, Arya, just anyone, Robb Stark or the worst beggar of Lannisport, but Tyrion would never get it.

 

There was chaos in the castle and on the grounds. Tyrion, with Bronn's help, was gathering the gold cloaks and militia men, choosing who'd go to the Wall. Cersei and Joffrey – Shae said in a hushed voice – had a violent quarrel, so that the Iron Throne was shaking, and Cersei slammed the door of her chamber and hadn't left since. Myrcella was hurriedly getting ready to go to Dorne – she was going by the sea route.

Sansa followed the Queen's example and kept to her room, only waiting to leave. The devoted Shae brought her food.

One day, she also brought something else.

"A letter for you, from your brother," she smiled. Sansa nearly fainted from joy – she hadn't had word from Robb up to this day. This was a sign that the truce was there!

In the letter, Robb begged her forgiveness for him letting her stay captive in the capital for so long.

_But don't worry anymore – come to Riverrun, and there'll be Mother, Bran and Rickon waiting for you. You won't have to suffer Joffrey anymore!_

Sansa tried to calm her fluttering heart. She had been through so much that she had trouble to believe in anything good. Robb, though, had some less pleasant news to share. Lord Tyrion hadn't lied – Arya had indeed already departed for the Rock as Lady Lannister.

_I'm sitting here and thinking, and now I realize the sole idiot was me. The soldiers were bored and thinking up some bawdy rubbish about their lord and his cupbearer... I listened to their chatter... and then I opened the door and saw Arya. My head just spun._

Now Robb was sure that all this gossip hadn't had the least bit of truth in it. Sansa didn't know what to think. On one hand, Lord Tywin hadn't taken mistresses after his wife's death, that was certain and known to everyone. On the other – Tyrion had said that Arya "captured his attention". Perhaps it was naive to assume it was Arya's character that did it.

"Soon you'll go north, my lady," said Shae, who had been standing near. "With the army that goes to the Wall – but you, of course, will be taken only to Riverrun."

Shae often learned of the decrees and decisions of the small council much earlier than they were officially announced. Sansa didn't want to think how.

"I'm coming too," the handmaiden continued, "so don't be anxious, the journey won't be hard for you."

"Who'll be leading the army?"

"It was originally the job for Lord Tyrion. But," Shae lowered her voice, "the King suddenly demanded that they'd let him go too. That's why he quarrelled with the Queen."

"The  _King_?" Sansa's eyes grew round. Joffrey wanted to lead the army? Joffrey, who was scared to death by Arya and Nymeria? Maybe she had missed something, he had fallen off the castle wall, and the new king was Tommen or someone else?

"Yes, and he assures everyone he'll cut the Night King's head off himself."

All was clear. Sansa chuckled mirthlessly – Joffrey hadn't changed a bit after all, it was expected. Of course he'd go north, he'd parade himself on a horse in front of the lines and bully everybody, and when it came to the real fighting, he would hide in Castle Black or run all the way to Riverrun.

"My lady, don't you worry," Shae said with a belligerent look.. "Now, with the truce, he won't dare to torture you again. And you won't be coming with him all the way to the Wall. Oh, and besides, on the journey you'll be looked after by Lord Tyrion... and me."

"Thank you," Sansa smiled faintly.

"Do you need anything? You are so flustered, should I bring you some water?"

"Ask... someone," Sansa barely refrained from saying "your patron", "if I can send a raven myself."

"Two!" with a market illusionist's gesture Shae produced two sheets of paper. "For Lord Robb and Lady Arya."

"But where should I write to Arya? Robb hasn't written at which castles she'll be stopping and for how long..."

"Send the letter directly to the Rock. Your sister will be there soon, she won't make any delays on the road."

Sansa was already getting the quills and ink ready.

"Thank you again, Shae. You can go now. And send my thanks to Lord Tyrion," she had suspected earlier who was Shae's "benefactor", but now she was sure. How else could her handmaiden know so well how Arya's trip was planned?

Shae didn't even pretend to look surprised. She winked and disappeared behind the door.


	6. Chapter 6

In three days, they would be stopping at Acorn Hall – for no more than one day, Lord Tywin gave clear orders to ride without delay. Unfortunately, there had recently been a strong downpour, the road was pretty much washed out, and the horses could barely walk. Riders could have moved at a reasonably fast pace, but the wagons were dragged slower than a snail.

Not that Arya was aching to come to her new home – on the contrary, she was mad that she wouldn't even get to visit Winterfell. But since she had been sent to the Rock... she would like to have a look at it. She had read a lot about the mountain-castle – about its underground halls, its gold mines, many tales and legends of varying probability – and she intended to explore it in her free time.

 _I hope that Lady Genna won't make me sit quietly and sew day and night,_ she thought.  _If she does, I won't obey. How did Lord Tywin put it?_ I _'m the Hand's wife!_

Wrapping herself in a warm red-and-yellow cape, she leaned against the heap of pillows put on her seat and dozed off. She had absolutely nothing to do, no one to talk to – Tywin had sent three handmaidens with her, but all of them were so shy with the new Lady Lannister, that, apart from "yes", "no", and "as m'lady wants it", Arya couldn't get any coherent phrase out of them.

She dreamed that the White Walkers would be quickly crushed, and she'd go to Winterfell and meet her family... There were also some messy images of her as Lady of Casterly Rock, ordering Ilyn Payne and the Clegane brothers to hang, and the helmets of the Mountain and the Hound rolling on the floor with an ear-shattering pounding noise...

Arya opened her eyes. The pounding didn't stop. The wagon wasn't moving, and there were neighing, clinking of swords, and angry shouting coming from outside.

"What's happened?" she asked the handmaidens, who had all huddled up in the corner.

"We've been attacked, m'lady," one of them squeaked. Arya rolled her eyes:

"I can see that, but by whom? There's a truce now!"

"I don't knoooow, m'lady," the girl sobbed, and Arya left her in peace. Cursing Polliver who had long ago stolen her only weapon, she opened the wagon's door and stepped out.

"M'lady!" the girls gasped in unison, but Arya didn't heed them.  _What if it's someone loyal to the Starks or the Tullys?_

Her nose was hit by such a thick blast of smoke that she coughed for several seconds. The wagon in front of her own was smoldering, and further ahead, where the Algood men were fighting the attackers, there seemed to be two bright torches. As Arya looked closer, she realized them to be two burning swords.

Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr! The brotherhood without banners! Didn't they know of the truce? Or support it?

What could she do? Allow them to defeat her escort? What would happen to her, then? Most likely, they'd take her captive and offer her to Tywin, to Robb, or to both of them for a ransom. But... when Mother had captured Tyrion, it echoed in a horrible bloodbath that the Mountain had brought down on the Riverlands. And that was considering that Tywin hated his younger son. Arya, meanwhile, was a Lannister now as well!

No, they had to get to get rid of the brotherhood. For their own sakes and for the sakes of the poor peasants. Or there would be nothing left of the truce and the alliance.

"Lady Arya! Why, it's Lady Arya!" she heard a familiar voice.

In a couple of minutes, the battle halted, and Ser Algood from one side and Beric Dondarrion from the other stared at the girl by the wagon.

"Lady Arya!" the voice came again, and from behind Dondarrion's back there stepped nobody else but Harwin, who used to be one of Eddard Stark's Winterfell guards.

"Harwin!" Arya cried with joy. "Are you in the brotherhood?"

"My lady," he bowed. The rest of them followed his example. "But what happened? Why are you dressed in Lannister colors?"

"I don't know if you're aware of it, my lords," she began, trying to sound convinced and firm, "but the Lannisters and the Stark have allied because of the advance of the White Walkers in the North."

"It's only a lying rumor, my lady," said Lord Beric, standing up. Had it not been for his now legendary flaming sword and the sigil on his shield, Arya would never have known him – the handsome knight from the Hand's Tourney, the man of Jeyne Poole's dreams, had turned into a thin and wrinkled old man who looked like a wizened tree.

"I ask you to be more careful with your words, Lord Beric. It's my brother Jon Snow you're calling a liar."

"But... my lady, why these colors in your dress?" Harwin asked again.

"The alliance was sealed by my wedding to Lord Tywin Lannister."

Noise rose from the brotherhood's side. Arya silently thanked Daisy who had made her put on the dress and the jewels – as she had foreseen, nobody had heard a word of the wedding.

" _Lannisters!_ They sank low enough in the dirt to force..." Lord Beric began, enraged. Ser Algood and his men bared their swords again, and Arya realized she had to act double quick to prevent new bloodshed.

"Nothing like it!" she cried over the angry murmurs. "Let Harwin vouch for my honesty. I swear on Winterfell, on the Starks' honor and on the memory of my father Lord Eddard, that I married Lord Tywin of my own free will and that the treaty cementing the alliance has been signed."

 _Of my own free will, indeed... I willingly agreed to it to be spared from the Freys_ , she reasoned with herself. She was used to lying, but she didn't want to lie and swear on her House's honor.

"It's a betrayal of Lord Eddard's memory by which you have just sworn!" Lord Beric said.

"Harwin can also confirm to you that my brother Jon Snow has never spoken a lie. The kingdom is truly in danger, and we must crush the White Walkers before fighting each other. Had my father been alive, he'd have done the same thing."

"We can't believe you, my lady," Harwin shook his head. Arya gritted her teeth to stop herself from screaming in fury. How could he? "With all my respect to the memory of Lord Stark, we can't let you go until Lady Catelyn confirms what you've told us."

"My lady, I fear we're surrounded," Ser Algood spoke. "We're ready to defend you until our last drop of blood, but would it be wise to do so rather than be escorted to your lady mother?"

"Maybe you'll bring us to Robb Stark instead? He's now at Harrenhal."

"Robb Stark is young and his decisions can be rushed," Thoros of Myr said. "We'll bring you to Lady Stark."

"Perhaps you'll believe me if I tell you more about the Walkers? I'm a very young girl," it sounded rather silly, but Arya couldn't think of anything better, "and I wouldn't have been able to think it all up."

Lord Beric nodded reluctantly, and she started to speak about all the letters from the North and, first of all, from Robb, of the terrible news from the Wall, passed to Robb by Jon... Her listeners' faces showed her that some of them were almost ready to believe her.

But Lord Beric and Thoros looked at each other and shook their heads.

"We'll hand you over to Lady Catelyn," the R'hllor priest repeated his decisions.

"Take the wagons, too, then," Arya grumbled. "There aren't enough horses for us all."

She climbed back into her wagon – it began to rain. Oh, they had barely signed the treaty, and now the fighting would start all over again. This brotherhood "without banners" was very much leaning towards support of the Starks and the Tullys, and the Lannisters would get mad.

"M'lady, are you all right?" one of the handmaidens whispered, barely alive with fright. "Have we been captured?"

"Yes, I am, and yes, we have," Arya said gloomily. "Don't be afraid, they won't touch us. I'll take care of the three of you. But what will happen to the people of the Riverlands... You remember what happened when Lord Tyrion was taken prisoner?"

Two of the girls nodded, and one of them, hardly older than Arya, with a long auburn braid, began to cry.

"What's that?" Arya felt guilty for her cynical answer.

"I've got my parents, three baby brothers and a sister with her family in Stoney Sept," she said, quickly wiping her tears away. "They've survived by miracle as it is... If the war begins again..."

Arya sat straight: she felt even more ashamed. The poor foolish serving girls were one thing, but why had  _she_ become so listless? She had survived Harrenhal, wouldn't she find a way out now?

"Don't cry... what's your name?"

"Letty, m'lady."

"Letty, don't cry. After all, I'm Lady Lannister now, I've almost forgotten it," she tried to joke. "All of Westeros must listen to my words. I'll make sure nobody starts a new war because of me."

"Thank you," the girl smiled through her tears.

 _I've exaggerated it a bit with "all of Westeros", but I really shouldn't be forgetting my new status._ Although her talk with Beric, Thoros and Harwin failed to yield results, she was still proud that she had managed to stay calm and composed, so that no one would think they were able to frighten or confuse her.  _Fear cuts deeper than swords_.

The wagon started to move again. Part of the horses had run away, or maybe the poor scared beasts refused to pull it, but it was going even slower than before. It hadn't turned off the road – this part of it was straight.

Hardly two hours later, there was a thunder of many hooves behind them.

Arya's heart skipped a beat with joy. She had hoped exactly for that when she first appeared before the brotherhood and then began to talk with them – she had hoped one of Ser Algood's soldiers would sneak away and call for help. They had been only four hours away from Harrenhal, and a lone rider on horseback, without the heavy wagons, would cover the distance at least two or three times sooner.

Jumping out once more, never minding the rain, Arya shouted:

"Stop! Stop right now and look back!"

Judging by the brotherhood's white faces, they had already done it.

When she looked back herself, she knew why.

The relief force was still very far away, but the flapping standard, black on bright yellow, was hard to confuse with anything.

"It's in your interests to get out of here, and fast," she cried to Lord Beric. "If you want to help your country, go north to the Wall. You'll see there which rumors lie and which don't."

They stopped. Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr were clearly debating whether to give battle or not.

"Are you crazy?" Arya exclaimed, seeing their hesitance. "The Mountain's Men will trample you."

"My lady, come with us!" Harwin pleaded.

"Why?"

"You've seen yourself, it's the Mountain that Rides..."

"He won't hurt me. Listen, do you really want to end your life here?"

The Mountain's riders were getting close. Climbing the trunk of some fallen tree by the road, Arya yelled at the top of her lungs:

"Clegane, stop your men! I said, stop them!"

 _I think I'll lose my voice after today..._ But the result was instant – Gregor Clegane halted his gigantic stallion. 

"Don't touch these people. They are leaving," Arya said pointedly, casting a meaningful look at the brotherhood.

"Lord Tywin gave orders to kill the attackers," the Mountain said in an emotionless voice.

"These was a misunderstanding. _I'm_ ordering you not to touch them. Or maybe I should send him a raven from Acorn Hall that you don't obey your liege lord's wife?"

"No, my lady, it's understood. It was also ordered that, along with Algood, we'll guard you on your road."

"Fine," Arya gave up. Surely from Lord Tywin's point of view it was also a sneer in her direction: she had begged him not to entrust her to the Mountain's Men... Well, she wouldn't make him think her so easily put off. She wouldn't send them back to Harrenhal – which was what he probably expected her to do.

She wanted to finally get back into the wagon, when one of the Mountain's Men jumped off his horse. When he took off his helm, Arya recognized Polliver.

"M'lord told me to give you this," with a forced smile, he handed her a sword, and Arya couldn't hold back her cry of joy as she saw her beloved Needle. "I am sorry I... happened to have it, Lady Lannister."

_Clearly, it's Lord Tywin's sense of irony. He thinks I'll be shy and confused with these monsters. I'm having none of it!_

"It's nothing, really," she gave him such a sunny smile as if he had been a fully devoted sworn shield of the Starks. Polliver even recoiled from her, and the exhausted girl climbed onto the soft pillows of her seat, carefully holding Needle.

However, when the door closed, and the cavalcade was on its way at last, Arya felt sick: her own behavior reminded her of the sugary smiles and poisonous politeness of Queen Cersei.

 _The fact that you're married to Tywin doesn't mean you should copy his family's ways_ , she scolded herself, dozing off again to the wheels' soft screeching.  _I don't know whom Genna expects to meet – a fool, a delinquent, a mindless puppet – but I doubt she'll be glad to see a Northern girl trying to imitate the manner of the Queen._


	7. Chapter 7

In spite of all her bravado in the beginning of the journey, Arya had felt uneasy throughout the rest of it. She remembered the tortures of Harrenhal too well. At nights she hardly slept, thinking of what would happen if the Mountain and his men went rogue. Only the presence of Needle by her side calmed her down a little.

Letty and the two other handmaidens, who were called Ann and Jenny, didn’t hide their terror of the new escorts. Arya had to get over her own fear and repugnance of Clegane and demand that nobody would touch the girls.

The castles where they stopped were like a blur for her. The modest Acorn Hall, with the wooden keep that smelled of resin; the elegant Pinkmaiden; the Golden Tooth with its massive round towers, where Lady Alysanne Lefford anxiously asked Arya about the wellbeing of Lord Leo back in Harrenhal; the cozy little Sarsfield… As foreseen, she hadn’t spent much time in either of them – in Pinkmaiden, for example, she didn’t even spend the night.

Soon after they left Sarsfield, Ser Algood knocked on the door of Arya’s wagon:

“My lady, look! You can see the Rock now!”

Arya obediently looked out – and was amazed. The colossal mountain of reddish stone had a golden shade to it even in the pale light of the cloudy autumn day. Its top – where, if you tried, you could see the tiny towers, looking like a child’s toy – seemed to rest against the clouds. The steep slopes were all speckled with brown dots that looked like ant-holes, even though Arya understood these were really the windows and portholes.

It was the most spectacular view she had ever come across.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Ser Algood smiled with admiration. “Our Silvermine is also built on mines, but it is a grain of sand compared to the Rock.”

With bated breath, she nodded, still not taking her eyes off the castle.

“And this stronghold is now yours, my lady,” the knight said respectfully. He was rather a simple-minded elderly man, fully devoted to his liege lords, knowing next to nothing of politics, and he honestly believed that Arya, who was now Lady of Casterly Rock and wife to the kingdom’s most influential lord, had to be bursting with happiness.

“I’ll start with learning to find myself in its halls,” she said. “I’ve heard there’s a labyrinth of them inside.”

“Well, I think Lady Genna will quickly show you around.”

On the actual day of her arrival, upon Letty’s advice, Arya changed into a red cloak welted with whitish grey fur, and a red-and-silver dress – now there was no need to underline her being a Lannister for those she met on the road, and Lady Genna might not have liked it that Tywin’s little spouse was already showing off her position as the new Lady of the Rock. It would be more proper and modest for Arya to present herself in mixed Stark-Lannister colors.

“Have you met Genna Lannister?” Arya asked, when Letty was straightening her cloak.

“No, m’lady, never. But her husband’s a Frey, and we heard things… They say Lady Genna is a woman of her own mind and only listens to Lord Tywin, and not every time too.”

“He did say several times that I’ll get on with her.”

“I’m sure you will, m’lady,” Letty bowed. “Oh, such a pity with your short hair! I can’t arrange them in any way.”

“Thankfully,” Arya shuddered. “It’s enough that I’ve been wearing dresses for two weeks.”

As they got close to the Lion's Mouth – a huge cavern, the main entrance to the Rock – Arya left the wagon and went further on foot. There were about twenty people, grown and children, standing under the stone arch (Arya was glad there weren't more – she wasn't a queen, after all, for all the servants to line up for her), most of them clad in red and yellow.

Arya would have known which of them was Lady Genna even without Ser Algood's quiet whisper – the large, round-faced golden-haired woman of about fifty-odd stood out from the crowd, and not just because of her imposing figure and magnificent dress. In her green eyes and wide, calm smile there were the confidence in her own strength and the habit of ordering the rest of the world around, and, though Genna's looks hardly resembled those of her stern brother, lean and with clean-cut features, it was obvious their characters were very much alike.

"Here's my new sister!" Genna laughed, when Arya approached her with a curtsey. "Don't bow, honestly, don't be embarrassed, we're family after all!" she hugged her so tight that Arya was afraid she'd choke. "Welcome, Arya. It seems to me that the introductions should be done immediately upon arrival, but it also seems to me that it's dinnertime. Let's go inside, Arya. So that we wouldn't have to march all the way to the Velvet Room – that's where we usually eat – and you wouldn't be completely exhausted, I've ordered the dinner to be served in the small audience chamber. Oh, greetings, Ser Werton! You will be now escorted to your guest rooms..." she gave a few short orders to the servants and led Arya into the Lion's Mouth.

Arya chuckled to herself: after working as Tywin's cupbearer she wasn't to be fooled by such tricks. Yes, while Tywin always spoke coldly and to the point and could make a wreck of a man with a single heavy glare, his sister had clearly chosen another strategy – the cheerful chatter of a kindly plump lady. But it was a strategy nonetheless – Genna had to learn and judge her new relation's character.

After the Lion's Mouth there was a stone staircase, covered with a carpet, which led somewhere up into the darkness, where candlelights barely glimmered. But Genna didn't go there.

"Here," she led the girl aside, and the latter hardly blinked before she found herself in a small and rather modest room. It was decorated in suddenly soft brown colors, with practically no gold or purple that Arya had braced herself for. In the middle of the room the dinner was indeed served: next to the light brown silk tapestries and the beech table the pumpkin soup looked unnaturally bright red. 

"In the times of the Kings of the Rock the commoners had waited here for audiences," Genna explained. "Please, my dear, make yourself comfortable, the servants will bring your things to your room."

She sat heavily at the head of the table, sniffed the soup, gave a satisfied smile and, seeing that everyone had sat, turned to Arya again:

"Well. Now, sweet sister, let me introduce you. This is my husband Emmon Frey," a thin short man bowed his bald head and murmured "My lady", "my eldest grandson Ty Frey, named after your lord husband," a fair-haired boy a bit younger than Arya gave a respectful nod, "Lady Melesa, the wife of my son Lyonel (he's still in King's Landing), Walder, my youngest son," a young dark-haired woman and a page in a red coat smiled shyly. Everyone of them was obviously in awe of their formidable matriarch.

"And these are the wife and daughter of Kevan – you've met him, as far as I know. Lady Dorna and Lady Janei."

Dorna turned out to be utterly plain – terribly thin, her mouse-colored hair drawn into a tight bun, and with thin lips. Remembering how Ser Kevan had missed her, Arya expected to see – well, not a beauty perhaps, but at least an eye-catching woman like Genna. The two-year-old Janei, who had inherited her father's plump cheeks and golden hair, smiled brightly and saluted Arya with her soup-covered spoon.

"Oh, before I forget," Arya recalled. "Ser Kevan gave me a letter for Lady Dorna... Letty!" she called for the maid, who was carrying her things from the wagon. "Bring the letter, please – you remember where it is!"

"From Kevan?" Dorna flung up her hands. "Oh, thank you, thank you!"

Rushing to the abashed Arya, she gave her an impulsive hug and kissed her on both cheeks. When Letty came with the letter, though, Dorna seemed ready to faint. She passionately pressed her lips to the paper, then held it to her breast for a moment, and only after that she began to read, blushing and smiling all the time. Such behavior wouldn't have surprised Arya if it had been a girl of Sansa's age, but a fifty-year-old woman behaving like a lovestruck girl in her teens looked... odd.

 

"You've also got toothache from all the sweetness of our Dorna?" Genna asked knowingly after dinner, when she was going up the stairs with Arya, holding her patronizingly by the arm ("You won't find your chambers without help, and I'll show you the castle a bit"). "That happens when you're not used to her. And you haven't seen her and Kevan together yet. By the way," she nudged her elbow. "don't start telling me tales of your pure and ardent love for your husband. I won't believe them."

"Genna, first and foremost I don't want you to believe that foolish story about my supposedly lost innocence."

"Calm down, darling. Don't I know my own brother?"

"Pure and ardent love for Lady Joanna, and then loss of interest in women?" Arya specified.

"Joanna, poor thing – he loved her truly," Genna sighed. "Too much, even. Why do you think he hates Tyrion so? As for the second part... let's put it this way: if you had really caught his eye in  _that_ sense, he certainly wouldn't have made you his personal servant and wouldn't have sat alone with you for hours in broad daylight. Nobody would have heard or known of you, you can be sure."

Was she hinting that Tywin had had other women after Joanna's death? He was so famous for his stolidity and disdain for women in general and for brothels in particular... Well, Genna  _did_ say that nobody would have suspected anything.

 _Well, if he, unlike the late King Robert, can hide his antics (and_ how _! not a single thing has been found out all these years!), let him sleep with whomever he wants._ Arya didn't question Genna further on the subject: she could have later told Tywin about it, and then there would be a storm coming.

"Oh, and you'd better not talk with him about Tyrion at all," Genna said firmly. "One day I told him that Tyrion resembles him more than his other children do, and he didn't speak with me for half a year and still holds a grudge about it."

"Tyrion resembles him?" Arya asked.

"You see! No one even realizes it! As for their looks, it's hard to find two people who're less similar, but Tyrion has his father's brains, believe me. Maybe someday you'll know him better and see for yourself. Since you've managed to make my brother marry you, you're not so stupid either."

"I didn't  _make_ him!" flared Arya. "Didn't he write to you about how it really happened?"

"And? You managed to stand out from the prisoners' crowd, so that he made you his cupbearer, and if not for that, there wouldn't have been rumors started about you and your Robb wouldn't have discovered the two of you together."

"He discovered us together, but not in the sense you mean! Believe me, I wasn't planning..." and only then did it dawn on Arya that Genna was shaking with laughter:

"Arya, do you think I haven't worked out what happened? I fully understand that you weren't planning to marry Tywin. I never thought he'd ever marry anyone. It proves what I said earlier: you've got brains, or you wouldn't have impressed him. I mean, you have brains all right," she frowned and shook her head, "but you still can be thoughtless when talking and blurt out something wrong."

"I didn't understand you were joking at first," Arya stared at some old tapestry behind her companion's back.

"Don't worry. You'll learn to understand eventually."

They came to a landing, furnished in raspberry crimson. In the middle of it there was an elegant alabaster statue of a moustached curly-haired lad in peasant clothing, but with a full purse in one hand and several coins in another. His hair was gilded, so that it would be clear that the statue represented not just anyone, but one of the castle's lords.

"Lann, our dearly beloved ancestor," Genna pointed at him proudly. "There are many very different stories about how he drove out the Casterlys and took the Rock for himself, but they've all got one point in common: he never paid a single coin for it."

Arya nodded: she had heard much about Lann the Clever.

"That's the corridor that leads to your bedroom, this door – don't mind it, it leads to the kitchens and smitheries, and this is the entrance to the Hall of Heroes. I'll show it to you later."

"Why not now?" Arya started.

"Kid, you're exhausted..."

"I've traveled with the Night's Watch's recruits, we walked from dawn till..."

"...and you need to have a good night's sleep after your journey," Genna didn't pay attention to her attempt to protest. "And I need to send a raven to Riverrun with the message of your safe arrival. Tywin and your brother are still on the march, so it's no use writing to them. All right, now I'll walk you to your room, and you'll see the heroes tomorrow. Do you want to have the same handmaidens that came here with you?"

"Yes," Arya shrugged. "They're fine."

"Wonderful. But tomorrow I'll send you Maggy, one of mine – someone has to escort you until you learn the ways in at least the main halls, and all of your girls aren't from here."

_I see. And someone has to watch me. Well, I should get used to it._

Arya followed Genna along a row of rooms. She didn't even remember their furnishings, the only detail that stuck in her head was the constant glow of gold and silver. The corridor ended with an almost extravagantly sumptuous bedroom: sky-blue silks from Lys, a fluffy floral carpet from Myr, the legs of the furniture – in the shape of gilded or maybe gold lions, tapestries on the walls...

"Is there anything simpler by a chance?" Arya couldn't restrain herself. Her eyes hurt from all the gold, and she thought how stuffy the air must be because of all these fabrics and carpets.

"This bedroom has belonged to the Lady of the Rock for more than two hundred years. The first to live here was Lady Jocasta in the times of Maegor the Cruel," Genna said. She didn't look hurt, at least. "I don't think anyone will be bothered if you change it the way you like. I know the Northerners are used to humble surroundings."

"Good, Genna. Thank you," Arya heard the taunt in her last phrase, but decided not to start a quarrel. "Good night."

"See you in the morning, Arya. I don't know if we'll ever become bosom friends, but we  _can_ talk with each other. Which handmaiden should I send for?"

"I don't need them, I can undress and wash myself."

Getting ready for bed, Arya noticed a letter on the bedside table and smiled broadly as she read the beginning: it was Sansa's writing. Of course, the news of Lord Tywin's marriage must have reached King's Landing already. She hoped Sansa wasn't too scared for her.

Arya only wanted to rest a while and then read the letter, but she fell asleep before she even noticed it, and she was woken only by a knock on the door and Letty's voice.


	8. Chapter 8

Because the king was going to the Wall as well, the travel preparations were taking longer than expected. Cersei went into hysterics practically in the Throne Room, demanding that Joffrey changes his mind. Of course, now one could be sure: he'd make it to the Wall, at least out of sheer stubbornness. How he'd behave out there, now, that was another matter...

After the official announcement of the truce, just as Sansa had hoped, Joffrey left her in peace. Meaning that the beatings and open threats had stopped: the king returned to the drawling arrogant manner of speech he used before her father's execution. However, now that she knew what he was really like, this haughty politeness infuriated her almost as much as direct humiliations.

But the Lannister-Stark alliance also meant that from a hostage Sansa was turned into a guest, and she had to spend more time in Cersei's company. The queen was constantly in an awful mood, and her every word dripped with poison.

"Of course, little dove, it works out very neatly for you," she said bitterly, pouring herself another goblet of wine. "You're going back to your precious family, and you'll live in your eternal cold and be happy, while your sister made my father –  _my father!_ – wed her, and now some creature that doesn't even look like a girl will carry the title of Lady of Casterly Rock and run our family home... You know, your brother would have never won the war, we'd have squashed him like a fly, if Lady Arya hadn't arranged it all so cleverly. Remember, little dove: a woman's best weapon is between her legs, and sometimes it's more useful than spears or arrows."

 _Arya's not like that! Shut up!_ Sansa bit her lip to avoid saying it aloud.

"Mayhaps you Starks have brought the White Walkers from under the earth, or where are they coming from? What do you say? You know that Northern magic of yours, don't you?" Cersei gave Sansa an inquisitive look. "Your brothers said some spells, and lo and behold, there came the Walkers. And you're so pure and innocent you move us to tears. What? Are you silent? Because you don't have anything to say."

"I don't think Sansa's brothers have called the Walkers," said Tommen suddenly from the other end of the table. "Robb in Winterfell showed me how to shoot arrows."

Cersei glanced at him, annoyed:

"Tommen, don't interrupt. It's grownups' talk."

"Oh yes, and when I have to learn about some extinct Houses, I'm grown enough for that," the boy grunted. Since Myrcella had been shipped to Dorne, quietly and without pomp, Tommen had been very lonely, he was always pouting and complaining nobody played with him. Lord Tyrion tried to spend his free time with his nephew, but the problem was that he barely had any such time, so generally the part of "the prince's entertainer" was handed over to the startled Lancel, who, despite having two younger brothers and a sister, knew very little about children. Sansa would have gladly watched over Tommen, but this was forbidden by the queen.

"This is unworthy behavior, Tommen. Go to your room."

The boy jumped from the chair obediently, smiled at Sansa and left.

"You're leaving in a week. Joffrey adamantly refused to stay in the city," Cersei looked at Sansa, as if it had been entirely the latter's fault. "Well, he'll be a good company for you on the road."

"I don't doubt it, Your Grace," Sansa said with the same expression, and the queen cringed.

 _You don't like seeing your own reflection, do you?_ Ever since the shocking news from Harrenhal arrived, Sansa realized that her and Cersei's roles were now basically switched: now it was Sansa who could speak as sarcastically as she liked, and Cersei was powerless to do anything. Joffrey had quarrelled with his mother, the truce demanded respect towards the Starks, and now Sansa was also the sister to the queen's new stepmother.

But, despite all the hatred gathered in her heart, Sansa couldn't bring herself to copy Cersei's manners. And the reason wasn't just the panic fear that still lingered there, along with the hatred. There was some sordid pettiness in such a revenge, some narrow-minded gloating at the level of the palace's kitchen wenches.

Soon Cersei grandly walked away, saying she had things to attend to. Now Sansa openly smiled and hurried to her room. A week until departure! Finally! Just a week! And even though she'd have to suffer Joffrey on her way – it was nothing now!

She was so carried away she nearly ran into one of the white cloaks, but, to her relief, as she raised her eyes she saw Sandor Clegane.

"I'm sorry..." Sansa hesitated: how to address one of her very few protectors was still a mystery to her since he hated being called "my lord", even less so "ser".

"They opened your gilded cage's door, didn't they, little bird?" he asked grimly. "But these Northern Walkers are worse than cages."

 _But I'll be with my family_ , Sansa wanted to argue. She stopped in time, realizing it would only enrage him.

"Are you going to the Wall as well?"

"What else can I do if our  _good_ king is packing to go?" the Hound scoffed. Sansa was very confused: usually he didn't hide the fact that his duty was to kill at Joffrey's orders. Why was there now a hint of qualm... fear in his voice? It wasn't even killing people, it was getting rid of humanoid monsters!

"I think _you_ will certainly beat the Walkers."

"Save me from your chirping!" he barked, and Sansa stepped back. "Didn't your family write to you? About the only weapon that can damage the brutes?  _Fire_!"

Now everything was clear. Ashamed, Sansa wanted to ask forgiveness, but the Hound turned away and quickly walked on.

 _How awful! He understands how dangerous the Walkers are, but since they can only be killed with fire, he won't be able to fight them at all!_ Sansa herself was often plagued by the thought that men from all ends of the kingdom would be fighting the Walkers and she wouldn't be able to help in any way – and how hard was it for the Hound, who had no meaning in life except for battles?

_What if I write to Robb and ask him to put the Hound into some castle's garrison, so that he won't have to deal with the Walkers so much? Oh, no, it won't work, the Cleganes are sworn to Casterly Rock, and, even after a thousand truces, the Hound must obey Joffrey and his family..._

 

 

The white wooden horse was very large, and Janei often fell down – which didn't stop her from patiently climbing back again and again. Her mother, knowing her daughter's love for playing at riding, put heaps of cushions around the horse, and it seemed that the brave two-year-old rider was passing by some strange red dunes.

Arya hadn't expected herself to spend so much time with Kevan Lannister's family. It was Janei's doing – the little girl instantly liked "Aunt Aiya", and on the next day after her arrival she dragged her to her nursery and showed her all her toys. It looked like she sensed a kindred spirit: she only had a couple of fancy-dressed lady dolls, but the nursery was full of knights, dragons and horses of all shapes and sizes. Janei's pride and joy was a wooden sword, with the blade painted to look like steel and a really gilded handle. She called it "Bwightwoah". 

"Who is she taking after?" Dorna repeated with a helpless smile, watching as Janei buzzed (she thought) frighteningly and destroyed a mountain of toy bricks that was meant to be Harrenhal. "I've never been interested in these horrible wars."

Sansa would have gotten on splendidly with Dorna: Kevan's wife was just the lady from those sickeningly sweet legends and songs that Sansa had always strived to become. Dorna's life was limited to her family, the sept, the garden and handiwork.

"Aunt Aiya, let'th play you're a dwagon and I'm a king fwom old timeth!" Janei suggested, scattering pieces of "Harrenhal" across the whole room.

"I'm not an aunt, just call me Arya," she corrected for the hundredth time.

"Yeth, Aunt Aiya," Janei said agreeably, and Arya gave it up.

 _You know, Sansa, my married life is having an interesting start,_ she wrote later in the evening in reply to her sister.  _Today I spent several hours with the two-year-old Lady Janei, who's my niece now, and carried her on my shoulders. Can you imagine? She loves to play at knights and dragons, by the way, and we're getting along in the best way ever. I spent the rest of the day in throwing out the glitz out of my bedroom. All the furniture with gold lions I gave to Dorna – it turns out that it was her who helped "Cousin Joanna" choose all that! I kept the carpet, it's very fluffy and warm, and replaced the hangings with simple green ones. The bed and table are brought from the servants' rooms for now, but Genna promised to call a carpenter from Lannisport who'll make something expensive but modest-looking. And don't worry, dear sister: Genna isn't against these changes of mine. To put it bluntly, she doesn't care. Dorna doesn't see anything beyond her flowers and her embroidery frames, and I don't have to reckon with anyone else's opinion here._

_I think you're flabbergasted about me sitting here, nursing children and furnishing rooms? I haven't expected it either. Well, it's only the beginning! Tomorrow at noon the Lady of Casterly Rock will have her first audience with her vassals and smallfolk, and in the evening there'll be a lesson with the local maester. Today I'm still supposed to be resting after the journey._

_Genna showed me the Hall of Heroes and the Golden Gallery. It's my second day, and I already can't look at anything that's yellow and sparkly! What a relief it was, for example, when in the Hall of Heroes we stopped by a portrait of Lady Rohanne, Genna and Tywin's grandmother! She wears a green dress and has red hair (the color of bright carrot, redder than yours). Not a single glint of gold! My eyes rejoiced. Lady Rohanne was rumored to have killed five husbands._

Arya twirled the quill in her fingers. Should she be writing about these trifles to the sister she hadn't seen many months and wouldn't see for who knows how long? To the sister with whom, before parting, she had only quarrelled with and without cause?

Such a letter could have been written by a sweet well-behaved girl in an opulent dress, who married maybe not for love, but with ordinary arrangements, in a peaceful time, to a nice-looking young lord...

What could she say to Sansa?  _Sansa, I miss my family dreadfully..._ No, who knew what her sister had suffered in King's Landing, she wouldn't frighten her more.  _Don't worry about me, Genna is an excellent woman, even though one must be always on one's guard with her, and Dorna is rather boring but kind with me – I'm settled at the Rock._ This, on the contrary, sounded like Arya didn't care a bit for her mother, for her sister and brothers, and for how much harm the Lannisters had brought on them. As if she got a castle full of gold and forgot about everything... Her, who hadn't wanted to become a lady at all!

 _Believe me, it doesn't mean I'm perfectly happy, not at all! I haven't wanted to marry, at least not for another fifteen years and definitely not like this!_ she started to explain.  _It's just that we've been through much as it is, and I don't want to sink into despair, especially now, when we people should stick together. My position isn't the worst._

It looked pretty pathetic on paper. Some weak attempts at excusing herself. If Arya herself had received such a letter, she probably wouldn't have believed them.

"Milady?" Maggy looked into the room. Elderly and sprightly, Maggy mostly left Arya to the Harrenhal handmaidens' care, and she only told her the way to the various corners of the Rock and – Arya didn't doubt it – reported to Genna about what she was doing. "Lady Genna asked to remind you that the audience will start at noon exactly."

"Good, Maggy, tell her I'll be there by the time."

 _All the Lannisters have the same methods. Where Tywin wouldn't have said anything and given me a long piercing_ look  _instead, Genna sends a friendly message with a nice handmaiden about the time of the audience. The aim is the same: to let me know that it's them who decide things and not me. No matter, we'll see about it._

Arya put away her quill and folded the paper.

_And which family is the worst, if I don't know how and what to write to my own sister?_

Maggy immediately appeared by her side again when Arya went out to send the letter.

"Maester Creylen is on the lower floors, one of Algood's men is sick. I'll help you. I know how to deal with ravens."

Arya's thoughts seemed to reflect on her face, because Maggy's eyes lit up with mischief:

"The maester will teach it to you very soon. Lady Genna said that you like the things that ladies usually avoid."

"To put it short, I like stick my nose into everything," Arya agreed, curling her lip. "All right, let's go to these ravens of yours."


	9. Chapter 9

“Yes,  _heh_ , whoever would want us? But in that case, let one of my sons marry someone else of yours. I think your second sister is free now, right? And your mother’s no old hag either,  _heh_ , I’ve seen her myself. If I hadn’t had my little Joyeuse already, I would have married her, and she wouldn’t have to struggle with the choices. Eh, such a pity that after the Conqueror they’ve forbidden men to take many wives at once! This ancient custom on the Iron Isles – now that’s my thing: take many salt wives as long as you’re strong… Cat has always been a sweet thing. She’s one of these flowers that blossom more with their age.”

Robb, his face scarlet, was clutching the handle of his sword. He couldn’t say he hadn’t expected it. He had expected everything: the inevitable stop at the Twins, explaining himself to Walder Frey, and the fact that the latter couldn’t say ten words without a dirty hint. But the Lord of the Crossing could drive anyone mad, even a man who was ready for it. 

“Lord Frey, I admit I’m guilty before you, but I ask you to stop making such comments about my mother.”

“Now, Lord Stark, why’s that? I’ve known Cat since she was a baby. Which means much longer than you, _heh_. A pity that all of her honey goes to waste, she shouldn’t have buried herself in mourning, she should…”

“Lord Frey! Let me now choose my bride. Perhaps we’ll talk about how to make up your loss later, when the goings-on in the North get better. Your grandson has seen the White Walkers, and I think…”

“Choose all you like, _heh._ I won’t get in your way. Maybe one of your vassals will find someone to his liking, too. Or one of your allies. Oh, I am sorry, I forgot. Your respected ally has already made his choice, and if your younger sister resembles the wild and pretty Lyanna as much as they say, can’t say I blame him…” then, realizing he was already pushing his luck, Lord Walder grew silent, masking the last _heh_  with a cough. 

Tywin, who had been sitting next to Robb, looked at the old man with polite interest, and the latter quickly shouted:

“Come on, Joyeuse, and you, whatsyourname, open the doors!”

Lord Walder’s daughters, granddaughters and great-granddaughters shyly came into the hall and lined up. Robb, feeling rather like he was buying cows at a fair, walked along that line. He would have liked to know each of them better, to look closely and then calmly decide – but he couldn’t dream of it. Nobody knew whether he’d return from the war, and Lord Frey gave him a choice: either the wedding was to be today (“Well, why shouldn’t we do it fast, your sister could do it and you’re saying we can’t, _heh_?”), or Lord Walder would call back his army, and not a single Frey would move a finger to fight the Walkers.

A curiously tanned girl around his age flashed him a pearly smile when his look lingered upon her.

“What’s your name?” he asked awkwardly.

“Alyx, my lord. I’m the daughter of Lord Walder’s seventh son, my mother’s from Braavos.”

 _Should I take her and get it over with? Pretty, lively, nice figure… I don’t have the time to inspect the whole crowd anyway!_ But he was afraid to link himself with a Braavosi so easily. Who knew whose blood flowed in her veins? If only he could get to know her better…

“And who are you?”

“Walda, my lord, Ser Stevron’s granddaughter. I am called Fair.”

_No, I won’t last long with that one. She can’t even tell her name without flirting. Even though she does look lovely._

The names and faces mixed into a blur.

“Marianne Vance, my lord, I live at the Twins,” too weak and sickly, she wouldn’t do. And far too old for him on top of it all.

“Zia, my lord,” a shy maid barely older than Sansa, what was that Frey thinking? Oh, he probably decided that since Robb arranged Arya’s marriage, he didn’t mind a wife that age himself.

“Walda, I am called White,” lo and behold, a girl Arya’s age.

“Amarei. Ami, if you want.”

_No, I don’t want, fat freckled women who behave themselves like they’re in a brothel aren’t to my taste. Although, on the other side, I can stand here forever like this without choosing anyone. There will be no Valyrian beauties or Dornish seductresses anyway. It’s settled: I’ll take the next one!_

“And what’s your name?” he was already tired of asking it.

“Roslin, my lord,” another Lady Frey sank into a curtsy. “Lord Walder’s daughter by Lady Rosby.”

She was short, with flowing brown hair that fell almost to her hips, and big brown eyes. Very pale, but that must have been the curse of the whole family – most likely, Lord of the Crossing didn’t let them go outside too much.

“Would you like to marry me?”

Roslin blushed: it was especially noticeable on her white face.

“Y-yes, my lord.”

_Doesn’t openly throw herself at me, looks pretty, the age seems to fit… It’s decided!_

Robb took her hand and led her ahead, recalling the ritual dances at Winterfell’s spring festivals:

“Lord Walder, I’ve made my choice. I’ll marry Lady Roslin.”

“Wonderful,” Walder Frey croaked. “I didn’t think, _heh_ , she was worth anything.”

Robb saw that the face of his squire Olyvar lit up.

“You’re related – I mean, closely?” he asked.

“Olyvar is my elder brother,” Roslin said. “He spoke very highly of you in his letters, my lord.”

“Oh, but why then didn’t you tell me before?” Robb smiled. “I would have asked for Lady Roslin at once.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell,” said Olyvar. “What if you hadn’t liked each other?”

"Now, leave all this cooing for later," the Lord of the Crossing interrupted. "The wedding cloaks are ready, we only need to adjust the cloak for the bride. I didn't know whom you'll choose. Roslin, go to the tailors now."

"You've managed it fast," Robb remarked.

"Not faster than your sister. Well, whom will you give in her place? The other sister, your mama, or both?"

"I'd like to think it over," said Robb.  _Mother will never agree... and Sansa? She was going to marry a king, and now... now..._

"Wait! Won't you, by any chance, take an aunt?" Robb spoke it out loud merely to fill in the pause, and he was simply shocked when Walder Frey licked his lips:

"Why not? Nice thought! I've forgotten about Lady Lysa, I admit. Cat would have argued and refused, and your Sansa is stuck in the capital for I don't know how long..."

"And aren't you afraid that Lysa will poison a husband again?" Robb asked.

"Why should she do it? Her lover boy was also done in,  _heh_. My lads will show her that the world doesn't only consist of Littlefingers! Send a raven to Bitterbridge."

 

In the camp, under the banners of red-and-gold and white-and-grey, there was a furious argument going on.

"Lord Stark, it was  _sheer_ idiocy."

"What should I've done? Promised them the hand of Sansa or Mother?"

"You've given Arya to me."

"At least, your wedding was agreed upon in her presence! How Sansa and Mother would've reacted, if I betrothed them to Freys without even asking them?"

"Your mother betrothed you and Arya to Freys without even asking you."

"She's my mother! It's another matter!"

"As Lord of the North, you have the higher station."

"Well, what's there in Aunt Lysa getting married at the Twins?" Robb said angrily. "Everyone hates her anyway."

"Except for the Freys," Tywin shook his head. "This war was a benefit to them. Would you have married Lady Roslin, if not for the crossing?"

"Even so... What can Lysa Arryn do from the Twins? She has no goals – Lord Walder's right, since Baelish was murdered..."

"She might have no goals, but her son is the heir to the Vale of Arryn. The Freys will surely take him in for fostering, hoping later to marry him off to one of their girls."

Robb began to understand. He imagined the Freys in the North, the Freys in the Vale, the Freys in the Westerlands...

"But Lord Walder won't last long," he said thoughtfully. "Without him, the whole family'll fall apart. What's the use of them filling the whole of Westeros if they don't have a single leader?"

"Are you planning to hire a Faceless Man? No? Well, how do you now that he won't last long? How much do you think Lord Walder still has – five years, ten, fifteen?"

 _Oh, it's clear. He's afraid – not that the country'll drown in Freys... oh, I'd better not compare things to drowning when talking about Lord Tywin... he doesn't want the Stark-Tully family to have ties in all of the Seven Kingdoms. If our people are close to Robert Arryn, we'll have large chances for aid from the lords of the Vale in case of anything. Damn him to..._ Robb had to bite his tongue to stop himself from cursing aloud.  _We've got the treaty signed, and Arya's married to him for no reason at all, and still – he wants vassals and not allies!_

"What are you doing? Already writing a letter to the House of Black and White?" he tried to joke, seeing that Tywin sat at the table and pulled an inkwell towards him. The joke came out rather lame.

"Actually, I'm writing to my wife and my sister," Tywin replied, without raising his eyes or smiling. Robb nodded automatically before the meaning sank in:

"Arya? You're writing to her?"

"You heard it. Why are you looking at me with wide eyes? I'm not going to waste ravens. I'll send the letter when we need for some reason to dispatch messengers to the south."

Robb thought that telling his family of his marriage was worth a raven. He had a couple of Riverrun birds with him, and from there, as he hoped, Mother would send the news to the Rock.

"My lord?" some local Rivers poked his head into the tent. "Everything's ready for the wedding ceremony."

Robb quickly left, and Tywin didn't move an inch. They'd manage without him. Moreover, Lord Frey had grown too talkative for his liking: he'd better draw his conclusions from Tywin's absence and realize that his jokes about the marriage of Tywin and Arya hadn't gone unnoticed and wouldn't be forgotten in a hurry.

"Pour one for me – not wine, water," Tywin said, giving his goblet to Clive, one of his squires.

The latter filled the goblet and vanished. Of course, he was standing just outside the tent, ready to go back, quick as lightning, should the lord need him.

Not for the first time, Tywin had that unpleasant feeling that he missed his former cupbearer. She wasn't so ideally trained – it was amazing she could serve at all! Her interests and habits were unusual for a girl, she wasn't afraid of him, it was curious to talk to her... He had enough of frightened and obedient servants as it was.

_Can't I go too, with the army?.._

Of course, even if he had gone mad for a moment and said yes, her brother wouldn't have let her go with them. And even assuming they'd both have gone mad, nobody would have allowed Lady Lannister to go as a cupbearer. No, she would have had a separate wagon, with handmaidens, on heaps of embroidered cushions.

Tywin had never been a dreamer – he calculated various possibilities of events' unfolding, only using his logic and sense (one of his reasons to hate Tyrion was the latter's fondness for fairytales and fantasies as a child). But now, just for a second, he imagined that it would have been quite nice if the girl from Harrenhal hadn't turned out to be Arya Stark.

_Have you met many stonemasons, my lord?_

Too bold for her own good. She should have been given a proper whipping at least. Eddard Stark had obviously neglected to do it.

...On the other hand, it was probably better that it was Arya Stark hiding as the cupbearer and that the oh so honorable Robb Stark arranged their marriage. Tywin's pride wouldn't have borne it if he had been missing a common girl.


	10. Chapter 10

“I can’t breeeathe in it,” Arya choked. Letty sighed and started to untie the ribbons. The gorgeous white-and-silver dress must have been sewn for someone the size of a match – it was small even for Arya.

“Are you sure I can’t have a boy’s clothing?” she turned to Genna. This one was the fourteenth dress to be rejected, and Arya seriously started to doubt the trying-on would ever have an end. Her traveling clothes, borrowed from the wardrobes of the previous owners of Harrenhal and just barely sewn to be adjusted to her size, were naturally out of the question.

“For the last few generations no Lady Lannister has ever sewn man’s clothes for her audiences,” Genna said sternly.

“Perhaps I might have some riding suit?” Arya asked, raising her arms to allow Maggy and Letty to help on a new dress, peach-colored with green embroidery. The cut stood out in an ugly manner, and her hands disappeared in the wide sleeves.

“We-ell, Maggy, taking my own old things wasn’t the most brilliant idea either,” said Genna. “What were you saying, Arya? A riding suit? No. That’s your first day meeting your vassals and you shouldn’t shock them.”

Over the two weeks, working day and night, the Rock’s tailors managed to sew several dresses for their future lady. Of course, not a single one fit, now they had to be fixed a great deal – the tailors had overestimated the size of Arya’s chest and the width of her hips. The choice of a dress for her first audience had to be made in the same way as in Harrenhal: digging up the storerooms that hoarded the children’s clothes of Lannister women.

“Nicely fitting boy’s clothes, I think, would be a better choice than _this_ ,” another dress was too large.

“I think you’re looking for an excuse to dress as a boy. Don’t be silly, finding a suit that would fit you will be just as hard.”

By sheer irony of fate, they were saved by a red-and-gold dress that had once been sewn for a ten-year-old Cersei – the future queen had always been tall for her age, and her skirts were just long enough for the short Arya, and the chest and waist were practically of the same size.

Arya shot an annoyed glance at her Lannister color-clad reflection.

 _That’s the last time I’m putting on anything like this,_ she promised herself – and the handmaidens were already fluttering around, covering here with adornments like a pole at a village festival. A brooch shaped as a lion’s head, a red enamel diadem, a necklace that felt ice cold against her neck, Arya didn’t even properly notice what it was made of…

It was near noon.

_And an audience to suffer through! I’m already exhausted!_

She reminded herself again and again that she shouldn’t be irritated at her visitors because of her own endless troubles with dresses. Honestly, she missed even the not so exciting tasks of a cupbearer – then, at least, Tywin hadn’t forced her to wear dresses and jewels.

 

The audience was to take place in the Cherry Room – quite a gloomy place, in Arya’s opinion. Dark shades of cherry wood and palisander, deep crimson draperies with barely a glint of gold, and a painting depicting the head of King Harrald of the Iron Isles being cut by King Lancel IV. 

“I suppose my lord husband chose this room for his audiences,” Arya said, looking at all this splendor. 

“The room has always been the same, but you’re right, it has changed since our father’s times. When I was a child, it used to have vapory rosy curtains, all with lovely ruffles,” said Genna. “I liked to play they were magical pink clouds and I was flying among them. And the picture wasn’t here – it was in the Hall of Heroes. But then, you see, forty years ago in this very room our father officially forgave the Reynes and the Tarbecks their debts,” she shrugged. “Tywin didn’t like it.”

“Their lot again,” Arya scoffed, meaning the Reynes and their allies. “Listen, let’s at least move the audiences to another place. To the room next to it, for example, what’s it called, the Lilac Room. The guests will pass through the Cherry Room, see everything they’re supposed to see and be horrified to the degree they should be horrified, but I won’t have to look at this awful painting for three hours. I won’t bear it,” for sure, the hairy black-bearded King Harrald hardly resembled her father, but still the sight of a haughty blond youth with a chopped-off head in his hand seemed to bring Arya back to the square in front of the Sept of Baelor. 

“But my lord won’t be pleased, I think…” Maggy began shyly, but then Genna suddenly sprang to Arya’s defense:

“Maggy, my lord will surely decide for himself whether he’s pleased or not. I don’t like this painting either. The Lilac Room will do just as well, and it’s almost of the same size.”

_Does she really agree with me, or can it be a trap? On the other hand, I shouldn’t look for traps in such petty things – I might go crazy like that. The audience room is no big deal. If Tywin hears about it and grows angry, I’ll agree to the Cherry Room, but only if the picture’s removed or changed._

The Lilac Room, with its light purple coloring and almost complete lack of gold and red, instantly cheered Arya up. The blood-red velvet chair with gold flourishes stood out a bit – Genna insisted on carrying it from the Cherry Room, said it was traditional to sit there during the audiences. Well, it didn’t bother Arya so much. 

When the clock struck noon, the visitors were at the doors already – as Arya guessed, they had probably had enough time to look at every detail of the painting. 

Genna sat by her side in a simpler chair, and the four handmaidens stood behind them. Red Walder, Genna’s son, was at the door in his ever-present red coat.

“Lady Bethany Doggett of Raven’s Nest!” he announced the first visitor. Arya took a deep breath and tried to relax. She didn’t even remember the house. Was it rich? Poor? Lords or landed knights?

The visitor turned out to be a good-looking woman of thirty-odd in a plain white-and-green dress. So, either they were really poor or they were trying to move her to pity.

“My lady,” Lady Doggett sunk into a deep curtsy. “Do accept my congratulations; all of us, my family, my tenants and myself, we wish you a long and happy marriage and strong healthy children,” with horror, Arya imagined the wishes would come true. “Please allow me to give you a small present from House Doggett.”

Taking a large packet from her maid, she handed it to Arya. The latter, trying not to get tangled in her skirts, rose from the chair and took it.

Inside, there was a charming porcelain figure of a unicorn, carved very meticulously, down to every hair in the curly mane.

“Thank you, Lady Doggett,” she calmed down a bit. She doubted the matter would amount to congratulations and the present, but, if her guest brought such an obviously expensive statue, she wouldn’t have the audacity to actually beg for money – and this was what Arya feared most. “Do have any other questions?” the phrase wasn’t too elegant, it was something Maester Luwin would ask after a lesson, but it sounded pretty weak for a question from the sovereign to a vassal. 

Lady Doggett didn’t notice – or pretended not to. 

“My lady, most of our men have left for war with your lord husband already after King Robert’s death,” she said. “We have practically no fighters at all, and our villages have been raided by the brotherhood without banners – four times, and that’s not counting the small attacks. Ten days ago they attacked Raven’s Nest… we lost more than a hundred people, it’s a large number for our castle.”

So the brotherhood hadn’t calmed down. It was to be expected – only in legends the heroine’s speech made every lost soul turn to the good. Still, Arya felt guilty: maybe, had she been more persuasive or had she agreed to go to her mother, the brotherhood would have been distracted from their pointless robberies.

“Your castle needs repairing, and you don’t have the money?” she asked. 

“The Reyne Room”, as Arya had mentally dubbed it, served its purpose admirably: Lady Doggett shook her head with _great_ vehemence:

“No, my lady, we have enough money, we’re ready to pay for everything ourselves! But we have so few men, everyone has gone to the Wall…”

Arya opened her mouth to tell Genna that Ser Emmon should send a party from the Rock’s garrison, but then she realized she couldn’t do it at all. Or Lord Tytos’s story would repeat itself, if with men and not with money. Though she sympathized with Lady Bethany and felt sort of guilty before her, but if she gave her men now, in three days she’d have crowds asking for the same. 

“Can’t you hire someone from the Free Cities?”

“My lady, we don’t have ravens that fly there, and it’s not possible for us to send messengers.”

Arya glanced in Genna’s direction, hoping she’d understand her unspoken question. 

“Pentos,” Genna mouthed, raising three fingers. 

“Lady Doggett, we can send a raven to Pentos and hire men for you,” judging by Genna’s gestures, there were three available birds, but she didn’t say it – they were the Doggetts’ overlords and not their maesters. 

Obviously, Lady Doggett didn’t want foreigners to work for her, even less to pay them – she must have been counting on a naive and kind-hearted girl to give her Lannister soldiers in Lord Tywin’s absence. But she wisely decided not to argue and bowed again:

“Thank you, my lady! Thank you!”

 _Well, Pentoshi are better than nothing,_ Arya mused, seeing that the visitor wasn’t looking too downcast. She made a mental note not to forget about the raven. 

“Not bad,” Genna said quietly when Lady Doggett left. “But if the raven gets lost, they should be charged fifty golden dragons at least. It’s not easy to train a bird to fly so far.”

The next one to be admitted was Ser Gareth Clifton, a short, stout man. He offered flowery congratulations but no gift, and Arya grew instantly alert.

Not without reason, as it turned out. 

“My lady, Lord Tywin has ordered us to gather all capable men to send them against the Walkers,” Ser Gareth began, lowering his eyes. Arya tried to remember at least which part of the Westerlands the Cliftons came from. “But Lord Farman has few of them, and we fear that Fair Isle, should it remain unguarded, will be attack by the ironborn.”

Fair Isle! Now, that was something. And Arya, who was prepared to refuse the demands of Ser Gareth, whatever they would be, lost her confidence at once. The ironborn weren’t like the brotherhood without banners. If they had dared to attack Winterfell, some Farmans’ castle would be a child’s play to them. 

“Perhaps it would be wiser to consult my lord husband?” she asked, unable to come up with anything better. “I don’t get know our borders at sea so well…”

“The Farmans are afraid to ask Tywin,” Genna laughed, and at the same time Ser Clifton exclaimed:

“My lady, but he’s on the march, and we need to decide the matter soon!”

_Should I give him men from our garrison after all? But then I won’t be able to get away from such demands. Send a raven to Balon Greyjoy… oh please, I couldn’t even get the brotherhood to see reason. As if, should I ask Lord Greyjoy to stop his raids, he’ll immediately stop and say sorry! And if I leave it all be, without asking the Farmans to raise their troops? They’ll think that they can do anything and that I can be bent at their will. Can I write to Tywin and ask his advice? He’ll decide that I’m of no use, and he might wipe the Farmans out for disobeying him, like he did with the Reynes. And most of them might not be guilty of anything…_

“Remind me, please, does Lord Farman have grown children?” she asked, trying to hide her embarrassment. Sansa would have certainly remembered all these lords and lordlings and knights…

“Yes, my lady. Gyran, Sorvyll, Androw and a daughter, Roselle.”

Arya knew one thing for certain: the younger branches of her current House were very, very numerous. 

“If one of them marries a Lannister of Lannisport, we’ll give you a good force from the Lannisport garrison,” she said, hoping her voice wasn’t trembling. 

“Ser Gyran is married, my lady, Ser Sorvyll is betrothed, and Androw is too young. But Lady Roselle is free, and she’s celebrated her sixteenth nameday.”

Could she delay the thing? But the Farmans would grow restless… So Arya had to sentence the unknown Lady Roselle to a fate similar to her own – a political marriage to a Lannister. But Arya at least had a husband whom she had got to know before the wedding…

“I will tell Lord Morvin of Lannisport to meet with you and send a raven to your lord,” noticing her qualms, Genna took the lead. “Morvin has got two sons and several nephews free.”

_It’s only the second visitor, and I’m already more exhausted than after a day of marching! What next?_

The next part was easier – when Ser Gareth, calmed a little, bade his farewells, he was followed by peasants from nearby villages with their petty squabbles and grudges. Arya had observed the sort of it in the town at Winterfell’s walls, and – as an insider – at Harrenhal, so she managed to deal with them relatively quickly and even with pleasure.

Two neighbors bowed and left (they had been unable to divide a cow, which one of them had owned but which was killed by a lightning bolt on the other’s grounds). Red Walder looked into the Cherry Room to make sure and announced:

“There’s no one else, my lady.”

“Congratulations, sweet sister!” Genna cheerfully sprang from her armchair, as if she wasn’t tired at all. “I think you can put this steed somewhere. It will be in place in the Column Gallery or the Bestiary Hall.”

Only now did Arya realize she had been holding Lady Doggett’s porcelain unicorn in her arms all the time.


	11. Chapter 11

Tyrion was in a rotten mood.

Not that it was very unusual, but since very recently it had become rather common. 

First of all, he didn’t have his most devoted (for a share of coin) bodyguard at his side anymore, though he had started to think him a friend of sorts. This time, Bronn couldn’t be swayed by promises of mountains of gold, golden women or anything else.

“They pay less in the City Watch, but it’s enough for drinks, girls and a roof,” he said with a tad of awkwardness. “And if the Walkers crush you, the rest of the lions probably won’t remember your promises.”

“And if I survive? I’m pretty used to it.”

“I have that vague and inexplicable foreboding that you’ll be in the vanguard again,” Bronn said lightly. 

The second reason for the lousy mood was the realization that Bronn was right. He could bet a hundred to one that his father would send him on a life-threatening mission again in the hopes that one day Tyrion’s luck failed him. 

And now Tyrion could say farewell to the last gleam of hope that he was being kept as a spare in case Jaime didn’t leave the Kingsguard. If Father had married Arya Stark, naturally, he’d leave the Rock to his children from this marriage, or, if none were born, to the wife. Why not? It was possible. Leo Lefford had officially announced that his lady wife was his heir because the kids were too small anyway. In the North, too, the male Mormonts were succeeded by Lady Maege and not by some fifth cousin from another house. 

Although to console Sansa (she had been through enough misery) Tyrion said that her sister must have interested Tywin somehow, and Sansa even seemed to believe it, he privately thought that everything was much easier: Tywin grasped a chance to make some new heirs. 

_Simply marrying someone in times of peace – oh no, the reputation and the pride won’t allow it,_ Tyrion thought joylessly. He remembered that in his early childhood some of the rich western lords offered their sisters and daughters to Tywin. Tyrion had hoped so much that a stepmother, even though she probably wouldn’t like him (who could like him, except for Jaime?), would at least soften his father’s nature… But every time Tywin’s icy reply was that he didn’t want to betray Joanna’s memory, and soon any talk of his marriage had died down. _But a Stark girl, and for an alliance against the Walkers… you can’t get a better match than that._

Finally, if all that wasn’t enough, he had to do without Shae for he didn’t know how long. Joffrey trailed him all the time, looking for any occasion to taunt him, and if he learned about Shae, he’d certainly tell Tywin. And it was much harder to hide in an army camp than in a huge keep. 

Besides, Shae was always at Sansa’s side – the girl was afraid to stay defenseless even for a moment. If she saw him and Shae together… no, she wouldn’t tell anyone on purpose, but she could blurt it out by accident. Tyrion would have gladly found a better guard for Sansa (Shae was strong and nimble, but a woman nonetheless), but he didn’t know whom else in the whole army he could trust.

It was their fourth day on the Kingsroad. Tyrion’s only dubious joy was the books – before leaving, he searched every bookcase in the keep for anything written on the White Walkers. 

Most such books were compilations of ancient songs and legends, with long forewords by maesters that said that all plots were pure fiction and that the war with the Walkers was just a drastically altered history of petty quarrels among local lords. 

Worse, no tale or song gave any exact facts on how the Walkers could be killed or at least frightened. Usually in the final part there appeared a Hero, at the sight of whom armies of Walkers died by themselves. Alternately, the Hero could forge an alliance with the children of the forest or the giants or someone like that. It would have been an excellent idea, if only any of them had really existed.

Although, if the Walkers had appeared, why couldn’t there be children of the forest as well? Direwolves, by the way, had also been though extinct. At least south of the Wall. 

“How long do we have to plod there?” asked Joffrey who had been wandering around the camp.

“Depends on what you mean by ‘there’. About three weeks to Riverrun, and then three more to the Wall.”

“But last time it took us a month to get to Winterfell,” Joffrey frowned. 

“Last time we weren’t accompanied by every single fighting-worthy man from the Crownlands. Are you so anxious to meet with the Walkers?”

“If they can be fought with fire, I don’t know what the Night’s Watch is doing there all this time.”

“I’ve no doubt that Your Grace has a brilliant plan to defeat the Walkers in three days,” Tyrion sneered. But Joffrey didn’t want to give up so easily:

“I wanted to take our wildfire hoard, but Mother and Lord Varys talked me out of it,” “Rightly so,” the Hound murmured by his side. Joffrey went on, “But we can make burning arrows.”

“Jon Snow from the Night’s Watch wrote to me that they use such arrows already. They’re not so foolish at the Wall, you know.”

It seemed that Joffrey’s supply of brilliant plans was exhausted. 

“I’ll go and have some sleep, we’re marching early tomorrow,” he announced loftily and went to his tent, yawning. Tyrion wiped his forehead. 

_I’m already hoping he’ll bump into the Walkers,_ he thought and chuckled: the intergenerational love in their family was enviably strong. _Father will send me on a risky task, I’ll drag Joffrey along, both of us will be shredded to pieces by the Walkers, and the Rock will come to Jaime at best…_

Tyrion was imagining all the poetic irony of such an end – to die together with his hated nephew – when he noticed that the Hound, sitting by the royal tent, was looking oddly watchful. 

“Anything the matter, Clegane?” he asked. The man didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. 

Just for safety, Tyrion glanced in that direction too:

“I don’t see anything unusual.”

“I don’t either, but I smell burnt clothing.”

Now Tyrion was really worried: where fire was concerned, the Hound’s senses never failed. Right at that moment there was a gust of wind, and Tyrion, too, felt a weak but clearly detectable smell of smoke. 

There were no shouts or running, but maybe no one else had noticed yet…

“Quick,” Tyrion commanded. He barely finished saying it when the Hound, apparently making up his mind, ran in the direction from which the smell was coming. 

When they came there, everything was over, and only curious bystanders were gathered at the place of the accident: as a gold cloak explained, the flames from one of the fires got one of the tents burning, and from the inside at that. The tent had been empty, that’s why the fire had burned for so long before anyone had spotted anything.

The Lord Commander, Ser Bywater, who was going to the Wall too, was now raging at the gold cloaks for having nearly missed a fire. There was also the fact, as Tyrion realized with a jolt, that Sansa Stark’s tent was just close by, and had the flames spread only a bit further, it would have ended in tragedy.

As she noticed Tyrion, a furious Shae bolted out of her lady’s tent:

“We were both fast asleep! Because of this so-called City Watch, Lady Sansa could have been burnt to a crisp before she realized it! I could cut their heads!”

“My lord, nobody recalled which of them was it who missed the fire’s spread,” said Bywater. “We’ll have to punish the whole squad.”

“Fifteen lashes to each, and cut their portions,” thinking it over, said Tyrion. The punishment was very mild, especially for a negligence that could have cost Lady Sansa her life, but they couldn’t afford to kill or cripple their best warriors. 

How he would have liked to console Shae… alone, but in front of Clegane and a dozen gold cloaks it would have been suicide. So he only asked:

“I hope Lady Sansa and yourself weren’t harmed?”

“No, everything’s fine. My lady didn’t even wake up.”

Giving her a smile (she nodded back in understanding, so he knew she wasn’t offended), Tyrion turned to go back – another book of Northern legends awaited him.

And then he saw the face of Clegane who walked after him – it was full of great relief, and every now and then he turned again to glance at the tent where Shae had gone. 

_Now what?_

Tyrion mostly knew of jealousy by hearsay – what jealousy could be there when you knew for sure your purse was the largest among the clients? But now that he had Shae, and only her… and that he had to stay away from her, for her own safety…

_Maybe she’s so calm about it because she’s found someone else already? Could I ask Sansa? But Sansa won’t give her away…_

Sitting down with his book, Tyrion stared at the page without reading it. After all, what should he have expected? Shae was surrounded by a crowd of bored men. And she knew full well that he couldn’t watch her even if he wanted to. 

How did she say? _Men call me often…_ Considering that after his arrival at the Wall he’d constantly be under the eye of his father, he wouldn’t be able to meet with Shae there. Perhaps she believed he’d forget her, and because of that…

_Stop it, you idiot! She doesn’t think anything of that kind, it’s a lot simpler than that, she doesn’t care!_

He glanced at Clegane, who was once more standing guard by Joffrey’s tent with an indifferent face. A pretty boy indeed… But at least he was of normal height: perhaps, if Shae closed her eyes, she didn’t notice his burns. But when had they even met? He ran to the fire like the wind, even though he was panically afraid – he must have been very anxious to save her… 

_But maybe I’ve imagined it all,_ Tyrion tried to calm himself down. _Clegane might like her, but it doesn’t mean anything. She’s lovely, many must be pining for her. It doesn’t mean she necessarily likes them back. And I might be fully mistaken, too. Perhaps the Hound was simply glad that no one in the tent was hurt, or he would have got it too, from me, for example. Which is right. Had I lost Shae, or even if she had been seriously burnt, I probably wouldn’t have tried to see into the matter, everyone would have caught it bad from me… And if poor Sansa had come to harm, I’d have been bound to punish everybody mixed in the thing, to…_

And then Tyrion was struck by a simple thought that somehow hadn’t occurred to him before: Shae wasn’t the only one in that tent. 

Personally, he considered Lady Sansa a child, ever since he saw her in Winterfell, with her naive smile, bright blue eyes and puppy-like devotion to Joffrey. But a lot of time had passed since then, Sansa had to grow up… and she inevitably matured physically too, becoming quite attractive, in fact. In contrast to Shae, who preferred to spend her days in quiet corners and hardly spoke to anyone besides Tyrion, Sansa and Varys, Sansa was in Clegane’s sight every time she had to appear at court. 

Tyrion recalled Joffrey’s disgusting prank after the Starks’ victory at Oxcross. It was the Hound who covered the beaten, half-naked Sansa with his cloak… When had anything like this happened? Sandor Clegane wasn’t a rapist like his brother, but he had never been noticed being gallant like the true knights he hated…

_Well! I wonder if Joffrey knew! I doubt he did, he can’t stand it when anyone wants what’s his, and back then Sansa was his bride-to-be…_

“Clegane!” he called. The guard came to him with the same impassive look. 

“Do you want me to pay you too? I’ve got a task for you.”

The Hound didn’t seem interested. 

“You see, our dear king is guarded, apart from you, by four white cloaks alone, and a group of soldiers and a group from the City Watch as well. I’ve been thinking that our… guest Lady Stark isn’t looked after by anyone except for me and her crazy handmaiden. You understand that we don’t make much of a guard in case anything happens. Lady Sansa’s wagon is practically right after the king’s – watch it as well, at least when we’re on the move.”

One look at Sandor Clegane’s changed expression was enough for Tyrion to understand that his last guess hit the mark. 

“I’m already…” the Hound began, but got himself out of it, “watching the safety of your family… and the family of your new lady mother,” he added bitingly. 

Tyrion wasn’t abashed one bit:

“I hope you won’t do anything foolish and you’ll remain on your duty until we reach the Wall. We value _devotion_ in our knights,” Clegane was smarter than many, but women could drive even the cleverest men to idiocy (Tyrion tried not to think of himself and Shae). One thing was good: Clegane was so ugly and hateful that Sansa, even should she be completely alone and fully desperate, would never let him get closer to her that propriety allowed. 

Tyrion calmly listened out where, in Hound’s opinion, he should cram the knights along with their devotion.


	12. Chapter 12

Of course, she had no chance to rest after the audience. Mostly she had to run after the untiring Genna in the corridors of the Rock, to the Bestiary Hall, where the unicorn took its honorary place among its brothers of stone, alabaster and gold, and then to the Velvet Room, where dinner was served. Arya barely had the time to eat her soup and swallow a few biscuits, when it was time for her lesson.

The room called “the lady’s study” was already known to her: one of these rooms, sparkling with gold and silver, that led to her bedroom. Arya barely entered it when she firmly said she wouldn’t be able to study in all this glitter. 

Hanging curtains would have taken too long, but they managed to find a temporary solution. At Maggy’s suggestion, they put several large mirrors at the walls – the mirrors were carried from the dressing-rooms near the feast hall.

“I doubt we’ll have many feasts before the lord’s return… or after it,” Maggy said with a knowing chuckle. 

The mirrors covered most of the golden lions and silver roses – instead the walls turned into an endless labyrinth of dusky reflections, where countless Aryas in red-and-gold dresses were sitting at identical wooden desks. 

Now Maggy wasn’t so sure of her idea. 

“Maybe you are uncomfortable this way, milady?” she asked, looking around and shuddering every time her look met with that of a mirrored Maggy. 

“It’s better than before. Tomorrow I’ll speak to Genna – it seems that the bedroom isn’t the only place that needs changes.”

Maester Creylen, rosy-cheeked, with flowing brown hair (born in the Reach, most likely), about fifty years of age, arrived precisely on time. His chain was impressive, not much worse than that of Maester Luwin’s. Well, he had made it to Valyrian steel…

“My lady,” he greeted her with a clearly condescending smile. “Are you ready to begin our lesson?” and, not waiting for Arya’s polite nod, he said: 

“Let’s start, then.”

The following three and a half hours were a nightmare. The maester gave Arya a full list of the Western houses – their names, sigils, castles, words, current lords, heirs, other members… All of that had to be memorized in the nearest future. In the very nearest one, literally. Arya hardly reread it twice when it was taken from her and the questioning began.

“The Westerlings?” Creylen frowned. 

Arya tried hard to remember anything at all. They had probably studied it with Maester Luwin…

“Holdings – the Crag,” she said uncertainly. “Sigil – a white shell on a yellow field…”

“Two mistakes,” the maester snapped. 

Somewhere around the twentieth attempt at guessing, Arya managed to recall the sigil correctly. She knew about Lord Gawen Westerling and his heir Ser Raynald thanks to her Harrenhal days: Lord Gawen was Robb’s prisoner, and Raynald was acting as Head of House, Tywin sometimes received letters from the Crag. Further, however, she came to a stumbling block. 

“Words… could you give me a hint?” she asked. Maester Luwin usually helped if it was the first lesson on the topic. 

“You won’t learn like this, my lady. All right, let’s take someone else. The Marbrands.”

Oh, these were easier! Ser Addam Marbrand, her old friend from the council meetings at Harrenhal! A lean knight with shoulder-length copper hair, he was very kind – he always praised the servants for good work, and one day, coming into the yard, he gave Arya a biscuit. 

“An orange burning tree on a smoky field, _Burning Bright_ , Ashemark, Lord Damon, Ser Addam!” she rattled away in one breath. Even Maester Creylen was impressed:

“You see, my lady, you really know it. Show me Ashemark on the map,” he rolled out on the desk a map which was similar to the one used at lessons in Winterfell: only the lands, no cities or castles.

She had a bit of luck here as well: she had once heard Tywin and Ser Addam discussing something about Fair Isle and Tywin remarking how close it was to Ashemark. Arya hesitantly put her finger on the corner of the Westerlands, separated from the Farman lands only by a narrow channel. 

“Almost there,” the maester took pity on her. “That’s the Westerlings’ Crag you have found. Here, a bit farther,” he showed her where exactly. “Let’s move on. The Cleganes!”

Arya had no problems with the sigil and the names, but the motto, the name of the holdings and the rest of it was shrouded in mystery for her. Maester Creylen chewed his lip disapprovingly. 

“What use are _they_ to anyone anyway?” Arya huffed. “Who in their rightful mind would go to the Cleganes’ castle?”

“The overlords should know everything about their vassals,” the maester said. “The Myatts.”

Arya threw up her hands. 

“The Swyfts,” he suggested, not even angry anymore but sullen. 

“Lady Dorna comes from that family,” said Arya, glad to know something at least.

“Right.”

“Landed knights, holdings – Cornfield…” Arya recalled the lessons with Maester Luwin. “Lord Harys… sigil…” one of Dorna’s embroidered tapestries came to her mind. “A blue hen on a yellow field.”

“One mistake,” was it her imagination, or was he trying to contain his laughter? Oh, yes, hardly anyone would want a hen on a coat of arms. 

“A rooster,” Arya corrected herself. 

“The words?” Creylen asked relentlessly, barely paying attention to the correction. Arya blinked helplessly, and the maester shook his head:

“Indeed, my lady, you know unforgivably little about your vassals.”

“My husband’s vassals.”

“They are yours too. Well, let’s check your knowledge of other lands. I hope you are fine with the Northern families.”

He was right: Arya knew the Stark bannermen perfectly and only made a single error – as it turned out, Daryn Hornwood, whom she thought to still be the heir of his house, had been killed back in the Whispering Wood. But when the maester turned to the bannermen of the Arryns and the Tullys, she got hopelessly confused again.

“It’s terrible, my lady,” Creylen concluded when Arya informed him that the Brackens lived in Raventree. “You need to learn all the houses, and as fast as possible. Tomorrow I’ll ask you about the West, and by the end of the week you ought to know all noble families of Westeros.”

Arya almost screamed. 

“Won’t you teach me ravenry?” she asked hopefully. 

“First things first, my lady,” said Creylen. “Lady Genna told me precisely what I should be teaching you.”

Lady Genna, Lady Genna, and Lady Genna all over again. Once more there was the friendly smile to her face and the instructions to the servants behind her back. Did she order him that Arya was only to learn the lords’ names and castles?

_Well, if so, I should remind him of people who are above Genna…_

“When we said our goodbyes, my lord husband said quite firmly that till our next meeting I have to master healing, ravenry and higher mysteries.”

Creylen’s rosy cheeks grew scarlet. He obviously became worried:

“My lady, I’ll be happy to teach you whatever you want, but you don’t know the most elementary things, and, as the wise men of old said, you shouldn’t leap before you run…”

“I don’t care about wise men of old. There’s a dangerous war coming, not even with humans but with the Walkers. Our armies will possibly venture far beyond the Wall – we’ll have to send ravens to places where no raven has flown before! And I’ll do it myself! Or perhaps you want me to sit calmly for, who knows, months and years to come, without knowing where my lord husband is, if he’s alive at all?” she finished in a trembling voice. 

Genna warned her against telling _her_ tales about her eternal love for Tywin, but for Creylen, as Arya figured, such a performance was just right. 

“My lady, I can send letters myself,” he rushed into explanations. “But your bannermen…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll remember all these Myatts and Westerlings. But sending letters, especially this far and in these times – that’s something I want to do personally. You might… confuse something,” she stared him in the eyes. She was far behind Lord Tywin and the famous heavy glare of his, but Maester Creylen swallowed and fidgeted. 

_Our Maester Luwin, even though he’s old, would have found something to say back! Or… no, I wouldn’t have had such a talk with him at all, he always gave us several lessons on different topics at once, and if anyone asked him about something on their own accord, he was happy as king!_

“I’ll consider your wishes, my lady,” Creylen finally said. “I am sorry, our lesson’s time is at end. Tomorrow we’re meeting at the same time as today.”

“All right, you may go,” Arya nodded absent-mindedly, still remembering her dear Winterfell maester. 

_Maybe I could send a raven to the North and ask Maester Luwin to come here? I know it’s a break of the custom, but our lands are dangerous now, Bran and Rickon are going to Riverrun, too… No, most probably our maester will accompany them. What is there to do for him at the Rock? He’s got to teach Bran and Rickon, they’re boys and entitled to it first and foremost. And this mean Maester Creylen wouldn’t want someone else from the Citadel to live here, he’d start working some mischief on him or spreading rumors…_

Creylen had left long ago, and Arya was still thinking that she had at least five more years to study under him. She shamefully remembered how often, when Maester Luwin told stories, not just to the boys, but to Sansa and her, gathering them in the yard much like a hen gathered its chickens, she had run away to play with the servants’ children. 

She had to admit she even thought of Septa Mordane with tenderness. Although the handiwork lessons was something she wished to forever forget, the septa, with all her strictness (especially towards Arya), was a kind and compassionate woman. 

Where was she now? Judging by the fact that Sansa’s letter (describing in detail practically every page from the Red Keep) never once mentioned the septa, she was dead. And in all likelihood, not by natural means. 

Arya thought with disgust that Cersei and Joffrey, who had caused so much harm, were now her stepdaughter and… how did one put it, step-grandson? And the truce between their houses also wouldn’t allow her to blindly rush for revenge anymore.

“Arya,” Genna floated into the study, “Maester Creylen said you were lazy with your lessons.”

“I wasn’t lazy!” she fumed. “It’s just that I want to learn not only our bannermen’s names but something more useful too!”

“It’s better to concentrate yourself on one thing.”

“Tywin told me I’ll be studying under a maester to learn about ravenry and medicine! I’ve learned the castles and names with my septa just as well!”

“Who says anything against it?” Genna smiled. “Just memorize the lords of Westeros – the maester says he wants to finish it by the end of this week. Then you’ll slowly move on to healing.”

“And ravenry?”

“You’re very keen on it, I see! Maester Creylen has been sworn to Casterly Rock for more than twenty years, don’t you trust him enough? And Maggy? She,” Genna lowered her voice, “had an affair with the previous maester, Arlon, and he taught her to take care of his pets. I rely on her like I rely on myself – can’t she help you send a letter in case you need it?”

“Can’t I learn to do it myself?” Arya echoed her. “Genna, tell me straight!”

“You’re indeed smart,” her good-sister noted. “Fine, Arya, here’s the pure truth for you: Creylen can teach you the basics of ravenry over a couple of months, starting from tomorrow if you like it. But if he does, I’ll have to lock you in a cellar and put two lines of guards by the ravens. Hardly a month has passed since the treaty and your wedding to Tywin. I can’t trust you yet.”

“Thank you,” Arya said without lowering her eyes. “I don’t trust you either.”

Genna clapped her on the shoulder:

“Nice work, sweet sister! That’s the way I like it – without these courtesies, cooings, or any such foolishness. Now that we’ve found out what we think of each other, you can go to sleep with a lightened heart. Tomorrow there’ll be no audience, but the carpenter is coming in the morning about the furniture for your bedroom. Sweet dreams to you.”

“Yes, goodnight, Genna,” Arya was slightly shocked by this exchange, and to think that everything began with a silly argument with the maester!

When she came to her bedroom, she started writing a letter to her mother and brothers at Riverrun. Would anyone trust her there?


	13. Chapter 13

As a child she used to love that corner of the castle best of all. By the doors of a spacious marble veranda, there was still the statue of some strange creature from long-forgotten old stories, with a human head in a fool’s cap, a round fish tail and arms made of shells. Water trickled merrily from the bells on the cap. 

The sound of the fountain was lulling and relaxing. Catelyn sat on the bench near to it and half-closed her eyes. 

Two ravens had arrived at Riverrun almost at the same time. Robb wrote he had married a very sweet Frey girl ( _Roslin was so reluctant to leave me – Mother, see to it that people are nice to her_ ) and also secured a betrothal for Lysa ( _Never thought they’d agree, but Walder Frey was overjoyed_ ).

Catelyn bit her lip to fight back tears. After everything she had to go through in the past year – the attempts on Bran’s life, Ned’s execution, parting with her younger children, her endless anxiety for Robb, the fear that gripped her after the messages about the Walkers – the betrayal of Lysa and Petyr had been the last straw. How could they deliberately drive the kingdom to ruin and sacrifice thousands of lives… for what? Lysa was clear enough – “dear Petyr” had ruled all her dreams. As for Petyr himself… With horror, Catelyn knew that he must have been trying to get back to _her_ , his boyhood love. If his manipulations brought Ned under Ilyn Payne’s sword…

_I should write to Robb and ask him to tell me less of Lysa. After what she did to her family, I don’t want to know her._

The second raven came from Casterly Rock – Catelyn’s heart skipped a beat when she recognized the clumsy handwriting of her younger daughter. Arya, poor Arya… When Robb had told his mother about his crazy decision (which he was regretting already in his next letter), she didn’t go mad like Uncle Brynden. Back then, she was still numb after the truth of her sister and Petyr getting revealed, and the news of Arya’s marriage merely strengthened the dull sense of despair that choked her soul. 

But when the initial shock had subsided, the realization of what had happened to her stubborn and unruly but beloved daughter hit her at full force. She remembered Arya, with her disheveled hair, tightly hugging her direwolf… The girl had at least three or four years of happy childhood ahead of her when the war and afterwards – the bitter tricks of fate! – the peace treaty and the truce robbed her of everything. 

For the first few seconds, Catelyn was afraid to begin to read. 

_Well, since she wrote and sent the letter, they’re hardly keeping her a kitchen-maid…_

She wiped the tears that had pooled in her eyes and looked at her daughter’s scribbling closer. _I’m perfectly unharmed… Lord Tywin treated me with respect… now I’ve safely arrived at the Rock…_

Catelyn caught her breath.

Arya described, very vividly, her work at Harrenhal (her little daughter serving at Tywin Lannister’s table! Who could have imagined anything so absurd?) and fondly remembered her friends, former recruits for the Night’s Watch, who had remained there. Regarding her marriage, she was rather calm. It was obvious Arya had no panical fear of her husband. 

_After all, I’ve always been afraid of getting married off – and now I can say the worst has already happened. There’ll be no celestial love story from Sansa’s dreams, of course, but I’m certain: if Tywin lives through this war, we’ll have a truce of our own with him. Something in the vein of our life at Harrenhal – although I hope I won’t be just pouring his wine!_

_Oh, Arya, Arya…_ Catelyn thought sadly. _Marriage isn’t only about talking and ruling your lands! My poor child, I never knew how to make a proper lady of you, and now, it seems, you’re robbed of your last chances of a woman’s happiness!_

She used to comfort herself with the thoughts that even should Arya remain untamed, she would be able to make a good marriage. The Northern lords, especially those who lived even further than Winterfell and had much of wildling blood in their veins, valued warlike and independent women. In the mountainous regions of the Vale of Arryn agility and courage were valued more than politeness and knowledge of dances. In Dorne, though there was a dislike of the Northerners after Robert’s Rebellion, women could wield weapons, even if not exactly at the same level as men.

Catelyn imagined Arya in a red-and-gold dress the girl would hate. After a few years of “the truce of their own” she’d probably become as grim as her Lannister husband…

“Cat, you’re here,” Uncle Brynden, whose voice echoed across the veranda, wasn’t asking. For sure, he had found her by her favorite fountain many times. 

Catelyn instantly didn’t like his expression. 

“Yes!” she sprang up. “What? What’s happened? Father…”

“No, Father has recently eaten and now he’s sleeping tight,” said the Blackfish tensely. “Cat…”

“Don’t torture me! Is it Robb? Something happened to him?”

“Robb’s all right, as far as I know… Cat, Bran and Rickon with their escort were attacked by the ironborn.”

Catelyn clasped her hand over her mouth:

“How… what?! Theon Greyjoy’s a prisoner in Winterfell, and his sister Asha was captured by Stannis’s men at Deepwood Motte!”

“But his uncle Victarion stayed free.”

“The Manderlys wrote that he yielded Moat Cailin and ran…”

“Exactly. He ran, but not far away. He waited for our main forces to move to the Wall, came to the shore again and attacked the boys without fear – they only had their retinue…”

“What does he want?” Catelyn whispered, sinking on her bench. There was a beating in her temples, as if she had just gulped down strongwine. 

“An exchange of Bran and Rickon for Theon and Asha,” Brynden said with a frown. 

“And if not? If he’s lying? I’ll agree for it, I’ll agree, but what if he tricks us?”

“I don’t think Victarion Greyjoy has the brains or the lowness.”

“The ironborn might have another opinion on what’s low and what is not!”

She felt she was starting to go into hysterics. Brynden hugged her shoulders soothingly:

“Cat, we don’t have to find out. We can free Bran and Rickon without letting our captives go. The forces of the Crownlands will come here soon, I’ll gather a good large party and I’ll go for the boys myself.”

“How? We don’t have ships! Only Stannis has, and his fleet is all in the north-west!”

“That Greyjoy’s a good commander in open battle at sea, but otherwise he’s dumb as a stump. I’ll bet you he’s now hiding in the Neck – he can't set sail for the Islands with the hostages, he has to be wary. We’ll find him quickly, and on firm ground he has no chances.”

“We who? You and King’s Landing soldiers?” Catelyn cried. 

“I would have taken men now, from our garrison, but I don’t want to leave Riverrun practically unguarded.”

“But why would the Lannister men follow you at all? They’re going to fight the Walkers, not the ironborn!”

Brynden shrugged:

“Naturally, I can leave them here and go with our soldiers. I think they’ll like it even less. They certainly won’t want to sit idly in the castle. And think of it, Cat: if today the Greyjoys captured your sons, what’s keeping them from lying low near the Neck and tomorrow capturing the king or, say, the Tyrells’ son?”

“Still, are you sure the party will follow _you_?”

“As we know,” the Blackfish chuckled, “their headquarters consist of the king and the dwarf. Neither will want to go and search for Greyjoy in the swamp. If any of them does go, they’ll drown as soon as they leave the Kingsroad, and the Kingslayer will return and have our heads for his precious brother.”

Jaime Lannister with the majority of southern captives had left for the North about a week before, planning to catch up with his father somewhere after the Twins and dying of boredom, waiting for the battles to finally start. But Catelyn didn’t doubt that if anything happened to Tyrion Lannister, he’d return – to help or for revenge. 

“Uncle Brynden, fine, suppose you’re right,” she said with a tremor. “But the king’s army can be delayed… every minute can cost our boys… cost them…”

“Though I’ll say it again and again that Victarion Greyjoy won’t dare to do it – even their priests’ teachings say nothing about killing captured children – Lord Wyman here writes that he asked the ironborn messenger for time to think it over.”

“After what Theon has done, I wouldn’t trust these people’s honesty.”

“Cat,” Brynden sat down by her side and stroked her hair, like he did when she was a child, “you know it, I would have gathered my men and gone to rescue the boys this very instant. But it would have meant that Riverrun would be left without a garrison.”

“But we have the moat!” she exclaimed desperately. 

“The moat is only a meager help. What if these same Greyjoys decide to attack you – who knows what will come into Balon’s head?”

Catelyn buried her face in her hands. 

“I see you don’t worry about yourself. But Sansa’s coming here soon! And that young wife of Robb’s, what’s she called, Roslin? I want to be sure you’re all safe and protected.”

He took her hand encouragingly:

“That’s what I’ll do. I’ll take a small group of ours, a big enough one from the capital, and one of their lower-ranked commanders – of course, Cat, I’m not so foolish to think that a Lannister army will follow me _alone_. We’ll track down Greyjoy and smash him, and then I’ll return here with Bran and Rickon.”

“Will you be in time?” Catelyn whispered weakly. 

“I will. I promise you, Cat, in less than a month Bran and Rickon will be sitting here with you,” he clapped his hand on the bench. 

“Uncle Brynden, are you sure…”

“I can already see the royal standards from the towers. The men from King’s Landing will soon be here. I’m not counting on any compassion from the king’s side, but Tyrion Lannister, as I've heard, has some human feelings.”

“Oh,” Catelyn realized, “if they’re close, I have to prepare to receive them…”

“I’ll do everything, Cat, don’t worry. You have enough on your mind.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” she smiled through tears. “I… I will go to the sept, I think.”

“Go there, of course.”

Petting her head again, the Blackfish left. Once more Cat felt sobs almost bursting from her breast. Why, why the moment she decided things couldn’t be worse they instantly became even more terrible? Bran and Rickon… held by these savages… Catelyn barely fought the temptation to sit on a horse, go to the Neck and scratch out Victarion Greyjoy’s eyes. 

Something rustled under her foot. Arya’s letter that she had wanted to reply to  
fell on the floor in the confusion. 

Could she tell Arya what had happened? But Arya wouldn’t be able to send aid. At Casterly Rock, just like at Riverrun, there were just enough people left to defend the castle. Should Arya worry and suffer because of her helplessness? Catelyn knew this feeling, and it was unbearable. Arya was just a child. Maybe she could write her all about it when it… when it would all be over…

But, as she took the quill, Catelyn realized she wouldn’t be able to pretend nothing had happened. Arya would feel from the letter’s tone that something was being kept from her, and she’d only be hurt. 

Should she delay her reply? Never in the world; the unhappy girl would think her own mother was shunning her because of her marriage to Lannister. 

Could she soften the blow and say that Brynden was already on his way? But Arya had never liked such lies, even told with the most honorable intentions. There was that matter at home – during one of her “adventures”, as she called them, she broke her leg, and was later very vexed at her mother who had assured her that the crutch and the splint were “just for a very short while”.

Clenching her teeth, Catelyn began to write. She couldn’t pretend nothing serious had happened, but she could try and avoid saying the worst…

_The Greyjoys’ raids are going on, though we have been sure Robb’s men dealt with them for once and for all. Victarion Greyjoy dared to attack Bran and Rickon on their way to Riverrun; thankfully, the boys are alive and well…_


	14. Chapter 14

“There’s been a messenger from Willem and Martyn, they’re coming in about three days,” Genna said after breakfast. Arya wouldn’t have in her life remembered who they were, had it not been for Dorna who gasped with joy and swirled Janei around the room.

_Oh, but of course – Kevan’s younger sons, Tywin said they’d be at the Rock, I’ve completely forgotten it… Where had they been before? Looks like they were our prisoners._

“Where are they coming from?” she asked tactfully.

“Riverrun,” Dorna said awkwardly. Prisoners, then.

To tell the truth, Arya didn’t know they were grown up enough to take part in battles. Mayhaps she’d make friends with them, if they weren’t mad about their hatred of the Starks. Who knew, maybe she would have a chance to have training fights with them.

“Arya, the carpenter said the furniture for your room would be ready in a fortnight, maybe a little later,” Genna continued.

“All right, tell him he doesn’t have to hurry so much. Oh, the study will have to be changed too. The furniture’s alright, but with such walls I can go blind. Maggy and I had them covered with mirrors yesterday, but it will be better just to cut down all this gilded reliefs and replace it…” Arya thought for a while, “with wooden carving, for instance.”

“I have wonderful porcelain tiles from the Jade Sea,” Dorna brightened. “White with a leafy pattern. You can take them if you want. I planned to use them to panel my bedroom, but when Kevan left for the war, I realized I couldn’t think of it at this time… oh, Arya, I didn’t mean to offend you!”

At first Arya didn’t even understand what could be offending in her words, and when she did, she chuckled:

“No offense taken. I don’t hide it that I miss my husband a lot less than you miss yours. Anyway, I’d rather take the porcelain – thanks, Dorna – than continue my lessons in a jewelry box. How could the previous Ladies suffer it?”

“I’m used to it,” Dorna said, confused. “Perhaps you just don’t like the style of the Westerlands?”

If Kevan’s modest wife was saying it, it was probably right. It seemed like the key wasn’t in the gold and silver by themselves, but in the gaudiness. Dorna herself wore dresses made from plain materials without a single golden thread, but they were nevertheless adorned with lots of frills, ribbons and embroidery.

“Well, settle the matter,” Genna said. “Arya, go to the tailors before dinner for a new try-on. You need a decent dress for your next audience.”

Did she know that Arya, with Letty’s help, had also asked the tailors for three man’s garments – a ceremonial one, one for traveling and one for home? Somebody would surely tell her sooner or later. No matter.

After yesterday’s talk Genna was no longer cooing over Arya like Janei over her plush dragon, hadn’t addressed her in a confidential voice like her bosom friend, and stopped calling her “sweet sister”. She talked to her… well, not as to an equal, but as to Dorna: calmly, in a friendly voice, with a bit of condescension.

“Aunt Aiya!” squeaked Janei, who had been busy with a sweetmeat before. “Aunt Aiya, let’s go and pway a game!”

“Fine, but not for long, I still have the vassals’ names to memorize,” Arya said, gave Genna a parting nod and followed Dorna and Janei to the nursery.

 

Asha Greyjoy wasn’t afraid of her captors. 

All right,  _almost_ wasn’t. 

Stannis and Selyse Baratheon, whose faces seemed to be frozen with the same sour expression for many years; the simple soldier, the Onion Knight; the youngsters bursting with enthusiasm for battles, Seaworth’s sons and the rest of them; even the repulsive girl and her mad buffoon with his incoherent couplets – none of that frightened her in the least. But the red priestess…

Asha, who wouldn’t cower before thirty seasoned warriors at once, who laughed off the scariest tales of sailors, got shivers every time she saw Lady Melisandre. In crimson robes, with red hair, and (Asha was almost sure) deep scarlet eyes. And constantly talking of burning sacrifices.

The most terrifying part was that the woman seemed to really believe in her own sayings.

 _How can you think that you burn people alive and bring joy to the world?_ thought Asha, listening to Melisandre going on and on about light triumphing over dark. She liked fire well enough – what ironborn didn’t enjoy warming up by a hearth after a storm at sea? – but not that much!

And now, while the ships were sailing to the Wall, Melisandre was persuading the Baratheons to burn Asha and the rest of the ironborn captives. Luckily, Stannis and Selyse, who usually followed her every command, protested this time, and both of them at that, which was basically unheard of.

Stannis said that after “Victarion’s sortie” it was better not to anger the ironborn. What was that sortie exactly, no one had any idea, except for Stannis himself and maybe the Onion Knight. But it looked like Uncle Victarion caused quite a lot of trouble to the lords on the continent.

Selyse had another concern: “krakens”, in her opinion, weren’t fit to be sacrificed because of their watery blood. Whenever Melisandre argued that all men were alike, Selyse said that the priestess came from faraway lands and simply wasn’t familiar with the Iron Islands.

Asha was told it all by Allard Seaworth, one of Ser Davos’s sons, whose task was to watch the prisoners. A seaman himself, Allard got on with them pretty well and was soon keeping them informed about the doings of the red priestess and “the King and Queen”, as he insisted on styling the Baratheons. And when it became known that Asha and her men could end up at the stake, he started to pity them openly.

“In the early days, when she burned down the sept, I already knew it will come to no good,” he said. “How is it possible? Like… like some chicken! And even chicks get killed before they’re roasted! It would be one thing to hang you or, say, cut off the heads – you are captives, after all… but this…”

“Don’t fret, Allard, if Stannis agrees to burn us down, I’ll hack off my people’s heads, but I won’t allow them to suffer _that_ ,” Asha said with forced cheerfulness, and a murmur or agreement rose among the rest of the prisoners: despite everything, the men from the _Black Wind_ loved their lady captain.

But days went by, and the argument on whether to burn the raiders of Deepwood Motte still ended in nothing every time. Stannis’s ships were anchored at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge: according to Allard, the Night’s Watch gave this castle to Stannis because they themselves hadn’t garrisoned it for many centuries.

It was obvious. The only remaining tower had only empty stone walls inside, with piles of moss here and there.

“There were wooden fences, chairs, stuff like that,” Allard explained as he led the prisoners to the dungeon they’d be confined in. “All rotten through and through. Like, touch a bench and it falls to dust. At least we prepared some fresh logs at Deepwood Motte.”

That rang a little creepy because of the thought of stake that had been plaguing everyone’s minds.

When Allard went away, leaving guards at the door, Hagen, the experienced Second Mate of the _Black Wind_ , whispered:

“There’re only two of them! And everything is falling to pieces around here?”

“And what?” Asha asked.

“We’re not bound hand and foot…”

“And what?” she repeated. “Shall we escape? To the south we have uninhabited hills, to the north and the west there are wildlings, and some mythical beastly creatures too, if you believe the rumors, and to the east there’s the Watch. And the _Black Wind_ was left at Deepwood Motte,” she added bitterly: she treasured her ship more than all her suitors put together.

“Why were we even brought here together?” Hagen’s red-haired daughter spoke out. “I guessed they’d take you, captain, since you’re an important lady, and all the rest of us would be left at Deepwood Motte with the Glovers.”

“No idea,” said Asha. “Alright, they aren’t afraid of revolts – we’re outnumbered and have nowhere to go. But why are they feeding our entire crowd? It’s not King’s Landing, there’ll be no processions with the captives. I don’t know.”

“That red wench needs more people for her fires, that’s all,” old Cromm grunted.

The dungeon shook from the shouts: “We won’t let her! Never! Anything but that!”

The guards outside banged on the door and demanded that everyone shut up, while Asha smiled proudly. Lady Melisandre was terrible, true, but it didn’t mean the _Black Wind_ would yield to her so easily – quite the contrary.

 

Some couple of days had passed, and Asha learned why Stannis needed the whole lot of them. 

One evening, when she was slumbering, leaning her head against a particularly soft oasis of moss, and dreaming that she was the invincible Queen of the Iron Islands, her dreams were broken by a booming sound of a horn. 

Asha opened her eyes and looked around, too sleepy yet to understand where she was and what had happened. 

The horn roared again, and the multiple echoes answered it outside. 

The signal sounded for the third time, its sound was still fading when there was a jingle of keys at the door, and in a minute Allard burst into the dungeon, red-cheeked, in a fur coat and with a bow. There was a dozen soldiers behind his back – apparently, in case the captives launch a desperate attack. 

“Who can shoot?” he bellowed. 

Practically everyone raised their hand. Even Asha did – she practiced sometimes, after all. Allard clicked his fingers, satisfied:

“We knew it! Away from here, fast, you’ll be given bows, and then – to the bridge!” 

“And the arrows?” Asha had the time to wonder, rushing with her sailors to the door. 

“They’ll give them to you there! They’re burning!” Allard stepper back so that they wouldn’t knock him off his feet. 

On the bridge Stannis’s men were already standing in several lines. Women, Selyse and Melisandre among them, and the men who probably weren’t so good at archery surrounded a huge fire that they used to light up arrows and spears and gave them to the lines. 

While on the other end of the bridge…

Asha cried out. Crowds of huge white hairy creatures – even from afar, she could see the light in their blue eyes. Now one of them gave a sign, and more normal-looking people came ahead… even fully normal…

This vanguard came closer, they could be seen in detail… and at this moment the bread with vegetables Asha had been given today bolted back up her throat, and the world grew dark around her. 

She came to her senses after a handful of snow fell on her face. Then she realized she was lying in the snow, too.

“Are you hurt?” her faithful Qarl was bending over her. Asha shook her head. 

“They… left?” she croaked.

“We threw them away. As this dullard Allard explained – as if he couldn’t do it a bit earlier! – there were few of them this time,” he said. “Don’t worry. We all were sick to look at these corpses.”

“But you haven’t fainted,” she said bashfully as she sat up. 

“Cromm and Rogon did, and very much so,” he corrected her. “When several of these… things got too near. We had to poke torches at them.”

There was a short but heavy silence. 

“Oh, Qarl!” she hugged him, and he clasped her shoulders. “So it’s true! All the rumors…”

“Looks like it. And we weren’t left alive because of watery blood or anything.”

“I see it. They need archers, that’s all.”

“But why this oh so kindly Allard hadn’t said a word about it?” Qarl hissed. “Wait till I get him!”

“That’s simple. We wouldn’t have believed him, like we hadn’t believed the rumors. We’d have thought he was mocking us.”

“And if we had believed him?”

“If we had…” Asha sighed sadly. “If we had, we’d have revolted back there on the ship. I’d prefer to be killed by a human hand.”


	15. Chapter 15

Willem and Martyn arrived in two days instead of three, but they couldn’t catch anyone at the Rock unawares. Dorna had long been sitting at one of the northern windows and looking for them, and the moment she noticed the red-and-gold standard, she got the entire castle on their toes.

Now it was Arya (in her old, red-and-grey traveling attire – she adamantly refused to put Cersei’s dress on for the second time) who was standing to meet them under the stone “teeth” of the Lion’s Mouth, between Genna and Dorna – the Lady of the Rock had to be in the middle. The approaching retinue was hardly larger than the one that had only recently accompanied her from Harrenhal: as Genna explained, all these were the former captives of the Starks and the Tullys.

Willem and Martyn turned out to be twins, about thirteen or fourteen years old, with golden hair and round faces. Naturally, Dorna, in breach of every rule of etiquette, hurried to their side first and gathered them in her arms, sighing and crying with joy, as soon as they got off their horses. They must have been apart for a very long while – judging by their happy murmurs, the boys weren’t embarrassed at all.

“My own kids, my sweet ones,” Dorna went on even after letting them go. One of them turned to Genna, another one scooped Janei in his arms, cheerfully noting how she had grown – and only then did they notice that the usual order in the group of the castle’s hosts had changed in some way.

“My lady?” the twin to the left said, perplexed, and put his sister down on the ground. “I don’t think we’ve had the honor…”

“That’th Aunt Aiya!” Janei told him. “Pick me up again!”

“Aunt?” the twin to the right repeated. Arya realized she’d have to explain it all from the beginning – either Willem and Martyn left Riverrun before the news of her wedding arrived, or nobody had taken the trouble to tell them.

“I’m Arya,” she said, smiling hesitantly. “To strengthen the alliance of the North and the Westerlands, I had to marry Lord Tywin. I beg you, call be by my name – not ‘Aunt’ or ‘my lady’.”

She deliberately didn’t say what House she came from – the first impression was the most important one, and she didn’t know what the boys’ opinion of Robb had been… But it wasn’t necessary, as she saw.

“So you… you are Robb Stark’s sister!” the twin to the right exclaimed. “But you're younger than we are! How can it be?”

"Well, it happened," Arya said. "That's why I don't want to be called 'Aunt'".

They bowed, still giving her suspicious looks.

For the rest of the day, Arya barely saw the twins – workers came to take the moldings off her study's walls and replace them with Dorna's porcelain tiles, at the same time she had to learn another pile of nobles' names for the lesson with the maester, then there was the lesson itself, in the Hall of Heroes, because the study wasn't finished yet... Arya crossed paths with her new nephews only at meals, and both times they either ignored her or shot her hateful looks.

The next morning, she tried to speak to them.

"I know you've been held captive by my brother, but we have a truce now," she began in about the same words she used in her letters to Sansa and Mother. "If we continue to snap at each other like this, will it change anything?"

" _Change_!" one of the twins scoffed. "We didn't think the damned Starks have defeated us!"

"Nobody was defeated, we just allied together against the Walkers," Arya corrected him.

"But somehow a Stark girl became Lady of the Rock, and no Lannister has come to rule the North," he retorted.

"We didn't come home to be ordered about by wolves again," his brother agreed.

"Nobody's ordering you!" Arya said.

"So don't butt in! What's it to you what we're thinking? We aren't obliged to be friendly with you!"

_Are they Kevan and Dorna's children? They don't look like it at all. Why is there so much spite in these boys?_

To be fair, their spite was only directed at her – the twins practically worshipped the ground their mother and sister walked upon, they were always admiring and respectful towards Genna, with Emmon, Ty, Melesa and Walder they were patronizing but nice. 

Arya could have warned them she'd tell her husband of their rudeness, but she didn't. They clearly thought her an upstart already, she didn't need to hide behind Tywin's authority in every stupid squabble.

During the same day someone had drawn a thin rope over the doorstep of her room.

 _What a surprise! They must think I'll run crying to Genna and Dorna,_ Arya chuckled to herself.  _They won't have it! I've seen worse in Yoren's group!_

In some way she was even glad about her dear nephews' prank. It reminded her of her beloved Winterfell and all the mischief Sansa and her had worked on each other back in these times when the septa's scolding had been the greatest danger...

Before her lesson, she visited Janei and ate some sticky honey buns with her. And in the evening, in the Hall of Heroes, she had to bit her lip while memorizing the noble Houses of Dorne, or else she wouldn't have contained her laugh: judging by the noise coming from their chambers, Willem and Martyn, preparing for their archery exercises, not only did get glued to their own quivers and bows, but also realized who was behind it.

Maester Creylen, who also listened to the coming voices, narrowed his eyes and looked at Arya. She was deeply immersed in the family tree of the Martells.

The boys were quick with a response attack: when in the morning Arya was passing through the Golden Gallery, someone poured a bucket of water over her. It was only too easy to hide in the branches and forks of the enormous gallery, there were several dozens of doors, and she didn't even try to find the culprits – it would have most probably ended in her getting lost in the poorly known corners of the Rock. Instead, she simply hid behind the curtain at the entrance to the Velvet Room and quickly whipped it off when the twins were running past it. When they disentangled themselves from it, Arya had long been seated in her place and was demurely eating her salad.

However, in the glass of milk given to her with the dessert there were – judging by the taste – about one and a half cellars of salt.

Now that got Arya seriously alarmed. Salt today, some wormwood tomorrow, and in a few years they'd give her tears of Lys!

Genna and Dorna obviously had their suspicions about this surreptitious war, but for now they left them to fend for themselves, even though they did shoot expressive and disapproving looks at the children, so Arya still didn't want to ask them for help. Sooner or later she'd have to confront Willem and Martyn face to face, without any help behind her back. She'd rather it happened now and not thirty years later.

After the supper, when Dorna went away with Janei, Arya firmly blocked the twins' way:

"Stop here! If you want to be seen as warriors and future knights and not as childish idiots, we'll now talk seriously."

Willem and Martyn (by the way, she still didn't know which was which) shuffled their feet uncomfortably. Arya asked:

"What is it that you hate about me? That I'm Robb Stark's sister? So what, your Uncle Emmon is the son of Walder Frey who has been my brother's ally, but you don't put salt in his milk, do you?"

"Uncle Emmon has always been on our side, and you!.." the twin to the left cried.

"Me what? I have been and I am loyal to House Stark. Just for you to know, they hardly asked my opinion about the wedding. There was a choice of marrying Lord Tywin or someone of the younger Freys. Mayhaps you'd have liked it better, had you had a relation  close by who switched to the new family's side immediately after marriage and completely forgot about the old one?" the twins, who saw where this was heading, shook their heads in unison, but she continued, "What if something happens to my lord husband in this war? I know a good deal about the Rock and its inhabitants, and I can marry into the Vale, or the Riverlands, or the North... Prince Oberyn and Prince Quentyn aren't married either..."

"You should have married them if you want to!" the twin to the right cut her off. "We'd have been future heirs to the Rock without you!"

Oh, so that was the matter! All these pretty words about the Starks, victories and such were a cover for simple envy and disappointment. If Arya had a child, Kevan and his sons would instantly go down in the line of succession.

_But why are they worried already? It's up in the air whether Tywin returns from the war and when it happens if he does. Furthermore, our marriage isn't fulfilled, so it can be annulled at someone's wish. And even if it doesn't happen and if we consummate it, nobody knows if I'll ever have children. Everything's so vague – and Willem and Martyn are already enraged?_

She understood that somebody must have put them up to it – simple-minded thirteen-year-old boys couldn't figure it all out by themselves. Who could have done it?

Genna, to remain the kindly aunt herself and set others at Arya? The timid sheep Dorna who hoped to see one of her boys become Warden of the West? Maester Creylen, who was angry at her again today for not learning houses and castles fast enough?

"Well, all right," she said, realizing it was hopeless to try and get a straight answer about it. "If you're accusing me of being an upstart, trying to order you around and to make you lose your inheritance... that's what you're thinking, right?"

The twin to the left gave a decisive nod. 

"So we'll do what they do in  _adult_ trials. A trial by combat."

The brothers glanced at each other and burst into laughter. Arya raised an eyebrow:

"Funny, is it? Are you frightened? So, which of you will it be against me?"

"Oh yes, we'll decide it and you'll say that your champion will be some grown knight from the garrison," said the twin to the right.

"Don't be a fool. I won't drag busy people in your silly _war_. I'll gladly fight one of you myself. Not to the first blood – I don't want your mother to worry – but to yielding."

They seemed to get it that she was being serious.

"Willem, it better be you," the right one turned to the left one. "You're, like, better with a sword."

"I thought so myself, it's alright," the other beamed. Arya looked closer at them – what were the differences? It looked like Willem had a smaller nose... Oh, whatever, she'd have time to learn to tell them apart.

"Agreed. When shall we meet? Tomorrow, at noon?"

"At noon we've got a lesson," said Martyn. "Let's do it right after breakfast."

"Good," Arya shook hands with each of them. "See you both."

 

Casterly Rock's sparring ground was situated on its very top, in a closed inner yard between the towers. Despite the massive stone walls around it and a wooden roof with panes of glass, the biting wind somehow managed to get there.

Arya appeared in the traveling attire that was finally ready – a dark grey one, lined with fur. Willem and Martyn stared at her as if she had grown wings.

"What, you thought I'd come in a frilly dress?" Arya grinned, taking out Needle. "Ready, Willem?"

"Yes!" a small sword, but clearly not a toy, sparkled in his hand. Martyn stepped back with an important look, apparently deciding to be the judge.

Later Arya admitted her only advantages were the suddenness of the fight and the water-dancing manner that was strange to Willem. Her, who had properly studied only a bit under Syrio Forel – against Willem, who had been training since he was, like, five and who had fought in the Whispering Wood! She'd never have defeated him. But it was crucial that Willem, who had been prepared to disarm his opponent with his hands behind his back, didn't even realize at first what was happening. And when he did, it turned out Arya's fencing style wasn't at all similar to the one he was used to.

He was already picking up the dance, when after Arya's false strike his ankle slipped and he dropped on the ground.

"Swift as a deer," Arya knocked his sword out of his hand and put her blade to his throat.

"I yield," Willem spat in a murderous voice, and at the same time Martyn began to jabber:

"Wow! We'll have to admit you're innocent. Ooh, and how did you fight like this? Is it a special fighting style for girls? Willem, get up! Arya, where did you get such a sword?"

But she hadn't got a chance to reply. There was a sound of quick steps, and Letty ran into the yard:

"There you are, m'lady!"

"Yes, we've had a bit of training," said Arya. Letty handed her a sealed letter:

"A raven just came, m'lady. From Riverrun, for you."


	16. Chapter 16

Joffrey was bored. At first, when he had been all high and mighty after getting his mother to allow him to go on the campaign, it had been bearable, but then, as expected, he grew tired of the campaign itself.

“Why are we limping like turtles?” he shouted every now and then at the soldiers. Not daring to argue with the king, the group that caught his eye would obediently spur on their horses and gallop for ten minutes or so as if dragons were chasing them. After that Joffrey’s attention usually wandered somewhere else, and the troops who got ahead stopped and waited for the rest to catch up.

On the very first day of the march Tyrion explicitly forbade him ordering executions and punishments.

“On campaign, the discipline and punishings are controlled by myself and Ser Bywater,” he said.

“But I’m the king!” Joffrey declared predictably.

“One shot from your crossbow without my permission – and you’ll be explaining it to the Walkers at the Wall,” Tyrion said firmly. “I’m coincidentally in need of a squire for my future vanguard strikes.”

The only freedom he allowed his nephew was hunting. The dried meat, salted fish and dried fruit and vegetables had to be saved till the Wall as much as possible, so they often had to look for fresh game. Tyrion figured that, if he didn’t allow Joffrey anything at all, the latter would sooner or later snap and pull something off, even with the warning of the Walkers, so he’d better just shoot quails and hares.

Cersei wasn’t informed about it: she of all people knew that hunting was highly dangerous. Well, Joffrey hadn’t stumbled upon any boars yet – he mostly brought small game and gutted it with zeal.

One day, when the hunting party got delayed into the night and everyone but the guards on watch went to sleep, Tyrion took the chance to see Shae for a little while – she met him outside her tent.

“Maybe you want to stay in some castle?” he asked. “If I get killed at the Wall, in all likelihood you won’t get any money. If _you_ get killed at the Wall, I think the result will be the same.”

When he had talked to her about her safety in King’s Landing, she had pouted indignantly and told him to fuck his money. But now she thought and looked down:

“Are you sure you won’t take offense? You see, I don’t want to be a bother for you in the battles…”

Oh, for sure. If you translated it into normal language, she was truly afraid. Most probably, for herself and not for him – if he died, she’d easily find someone else to console her… And really – not a single one of the soldiers’ wives followed her husband to the Wall, what nonsense he had been thinking, why would Shae want to go with him? Now there were already extremely few camp followers coming with the army – payment was all well and good, but nobody wanted to end up as the Walkers’ prey…

“Oh, please, don’t worry,” Tyrion forced himself to say. “All the women are staying in the south.”

Shae smiled in relief:

“I think I’ll stay at Riverrun with Lady Sansa. I’ve grown fond of her. I’ll wait for you there.”

“While I’m at the Wall,” Tyrion sighed, “you may loosen your faithfulness to me. I doubt we’ll discover a gold mine up there, so I won’t be sending you any money.”

“How can you say it?” she cried. “I’ll be paid as my lady’s handmaiden – she promised me already. I’m not at all eager to spread my legs for just anyone, believe it or not!”

“I rather don’t, but I’m flattered.”

Shae leaned in and kissed him.

“Are you sure we can’t get some time alone?” she whispered, getting on her knees in front of him.

“I’m very sure,” Tyrion shook his head. “We’re risking it enough as it is, but if we get caught in bed, you’ll be dead.”

A horn sounded in a distance. Joffrey blew it with all his might, informing pretty much everyone up to five miles away that the hunting had been good.

Shae pulled Tyrion into a tight parting hug.

“Watch out for yourself, please, my giant,” she said, cradling him like a child. “This terrible king hates you.”

“He’s not alone in that,” Tyrion said. “I’m used to it.”

She blew him a kiss and disappeared in the tent, silently, as usual.

There was less than a week remaining until Riverrun.

 

Balon Greyjoy stared at the letter, barely containing his rage. Theon, the weakling, the milksop, who had been bought by the Northerners… The fool, he went to Winterfell when it was made clear he should be raiding the villages on the shore. What if he did it on purpose, to get caught? Now he was perhaps telling the Starks’ men that he had been forced to do it, that he hadn’t wanted to…

This, what was his name again, Rodrik Cassel also wrote that Asha had been captured at Deepwood Motte and that Victarion had been defeated at Moat Cailin. Balon wanted to think it wasn’t true – Asha and Victarion were the family members who were still worth something. On the other hand, he hadn’t heard of any glorious victories…

But the disgusting thing in the castellan of Winterfell’s letter wasn’t even the news about the defeat of the ironborn and the imprisonment of Theon. What was most disgusting was that Cassel had the audacity to suggest making a peace.

_The White Walkers are coming closer and closer. Even if they don’t cross the sea, think of it: you’ll just starve to death. Almost nothing can be grown on the Iron Islands – without the trade (and no matter whether you pay the gold price or, as you put it, the iron price) you won’t survive. If the Walkers take over Westeros, where will you get anything at all?_

“The Walkers,” Balon chuckled. “Another scary tale of these Northerners, as superstitious as elderly peasants. Even if they do exist, they’ll leave when summer comes – even your silly fairy stories must mention that.”

_You have excellent ships and brave fighters. Why don’t you unite your forces with ours? Practically everyone has already entered the alliance against the Walkers – our Starks, and the Tullys, and the Baratheons, and even the Lannisters. We’ve recently had news from the Reach that the Tyrells will also send their troops, and we were told by the messenger who came from th me united army of King Robb and Lord Tywin that Prince Doran Martell has as good as agreed to help._

“You think that listing the families of your land wimps will frighten me?” Balon rolled his eyes. “Oh no, no concessions and no peacemaking! _Even_ if the Walkers attack us, we’ll manage by ourselves.”

Crumpling the letter, he threw it into the fire.

“Your Grace, maybe we should think over…” said Baelor Blacktyde, whose ship brought this letter from Stony Shore.

“You keep your mouth shut. You’re like my son, only worse – you became a southerner.”

Balon felt that the lords of the Iron Islands didn’t respect him much, and it enraged him to no end, and sometimes scared him too. What had happened to the old law? Why had everyone become so weak? All his life he, Balon, had tried to restore the glory of the Islands, of great kings like the Greyirons and the Hoares. But, for some reason, for the second time it ended the same way – with humiliating defeats and the hidden sneer in the looks of his own subjects.

“If both your children are captured…” Baelor didn’t want to keep his mouth shut.

Balon gritted his teeth. Blast Theon, he hadn’t many hopes for him anyhow. But Asha, his fearless favorite one!.. How could she get caught at all? Most importantly, how could they now be ransomed? He had to admit there wasn’t much in the Iron Islands that could be given in exchange for the prisoners…

“I’ll write to the Lannisters and offer an alliance against the Starks.”

“But they’ve united against the Walkers already,” Blacktyde noted.

“It won’t be for long, believe me. Wolves and lions are certain to fight again.”

Baelor Blacktyde looked at the king with pity. In truth, he knew much more about the goings-on on the continent than Balon’s letter said. During the eight years he had spent as a hostage in Oldtown, Baelor had found a close friend in Ser Mark Mullendore, heir to Uplands, who had been a fosterling of the Hightowers at the time, being their cousin some times removed. They still wrote to each other, and Mark, who had fought for King Renly, was aware of all the major events of the war.

_Should I say it or not? The old goat won’t believe me anyway. But I’m sorry for our men – they’ll be left against everyone else at best and against the Walkers at worst._

“Your Grace,” he began firmly, “I know for sure that the Walkers really exist and that all Houses of Westeros are coming to fight them at the Wall.”

“Where did this ‘for sure’ of yours come from?” Balon croaked.

“I have connections left in the Reach. I also got a letter…”

“I knew it! And you believe them, too! Get out!”

_Well, I've expected it._

As he was leaving, Baelor couldn't help but say:

"Oh, my lord, and it would be hard to clash the Lannisters with the Starks. They're related now."

"The Reynes weren't strangers to them either," Balon shouted after him.

As the door closed behind Blacktyde, he furiously banged his fist on the table. Such were the young ironborn nowadays! Especially those who had been held as hostages after the failed rebellion... Connections in the Reach indeed! Of course, these southern knightlings were telling all sorts of frightening stories – someone like them would be scared of a dead herring...

So the Lannisters and the Starks became relatives. He wondered who had married whom. Most likely, Ned Stark's widow had found a replacement for her killed husband. Yes, it did present some difficulties...

Balon took a quill with a heavy heart.

_I'll arrange for the ransom of Theon and Asha, if Cassel didn't lie and Asha is really captured. But there'll be no talk of any alliance._

The door opened again.

"Who's there?" Balon asked. "Don't let anyone in, I'm busy!"

"I'm sorry, m'lord," a very dirty and unkempt boy appeared in front of him. "Allen Pyke from Ten Towers, with your permission, m'lord."

"What? Is there any news about Alannys?" he got worried as the boy hesitated. He had long fallen out of love with his wife, and was she even the same person after her mind had dimmed? But Alannys, even living on another island, still remained a part of his life. He had, after all, no passionate feelings towards, say, the bridge of his castle, but he couldn't imagine the world where it wouldn't exist...

Pyke was mumbling something.

"Speak it out clearly!" Balon flared up. "What's the matter with Queen Alannys? Is she sick?"

"Not exactly," he said vaguely. "She had... Well, she asked me to urgently give you this. She said you'll understand at once."

Balon looked with astonishment at the urchin emptying a small packet onto the table. Some rings and bands, a glass bottle, a handkerchief, an arrowhead, a shark's tooth, feathers... He understood. Alannys had gone completely demented.

_And I was worried about her, too!_

"You can go back to your Ten Towers and tell the queen that it doesn't make sense," he said, not looking at Allen.

"Yes, m'lord," he agreed. "Here's your quill."

"Not this one, you moron," Balon said – the boy gave him a black-and-grey feather from the "gifts" of Alannys. "Damn it!" he pricked himself pretty painfully with the feather's tip. Blood came out on his finger. "Get lost, now."

He took his own quill and began to write the planned letter to Winterfell, but, barely had he written a single word, he felt his head spin like mad. He fell back in his chair.

" _Valar morghulis_ ," Allen Pyke said quietly and somewhat guiltily and – Balon could have sworn – jumped out of the window.

His head span stronger and stronger. 

_The guards... how did they let him through... the impostor..._

With an enormous effort of will Balon sat straight and stared at the table. And he saw that what he had taken for a packet was a note – a real note from Alannys, he'd know her handwriting anywhere. So she had sent some Pyke to him, he was simply intercepted? The words danced before his eyes, but he managed to concentrate and read them.

_He's back. I saw the sails. I'm frightened._

Who was back? Balon looked at the garbage on his table again, and he felt like ice cold water was poured over him. A bluish Essosi bottle that used to contain shade of the evening... the monograms on the rings and bands that formed the word "silence"... and  _crow feathers_.

These few seconds of exertion took the last of his strength, and he fell square on the table.


	17. Chapter 17

Moat Cailin wasn't fit to hold such crowds at all. After the Greyjoys had been kicked out of there, White Harbor sent a garrison of its own soldiers to the holdfast, and it was already quite cramped for them. But now – now it was completely packed. The quiet ruins turned into a likeness of Lannisport's market square. On the day of a fair. 

Robb Stark had hardly reached the gates when Wyman Manderly led him away by the elbow – it seemed that there was some news of his younger brothers. Robb sensed the opportunity and demanded that all people from the North and the Riverlands follow him. The "tender love" of the men from White Harbor for the Lannisters was well-known, and it was better to quarter them separately and give them fewer chances for squabbles.

Tywin went to the Children's Tower and sent, from his side, Kevan and Marbrand to keep order outside. He let only several commanders into the tower itself – the fewer ears, the better.

"Now let's discuss things seriously," he said when only himself and Jaime were left in the large room on the highest of the remaining floors of the towers.

Along with the rest of the former prisoners, Jaime caught up with their army on the causeway. Rather pale and a bit thinned, in general he looked quite well, and one wouldn't have guessed he had been in chains for almost a whole year.

Until the troops reached the Moat, Tywin hadn't even had a chance to see his son – he only glanced at the new lion standard that joined the rear guard of the column. It was difficult enough to ride on the narrow causeway, and trying to push his way through the crowds would have been the height of foolishness.

There wasn't much space in the ancient stronghold, but at least they could calmly sit down and talk.

Jaime wasn't sitting, however – he was quickly pacing around the room. Any other time, Tywin would have scolded him for disrespect, but now he understood: his son had sat still for far too long.

"So, I've heard many stories here, each one more bizarre than the other," Jaime said. "It would be nice to figure them out as well. The Walkers, it seems, weren't a nightmare of someone in his cups."

"Unfortunately, no. I haven't seen them yet myself – Lyonel returned from the Wall on a ship, and I haven't got to see his trophy. But pretty much everybody's speaking of them now. Including, for example, Stannis Baratheon – I hope you understand this one doesn't often see things 'in his cups'."

Jaime merely nodded and thought that he shouldn't be discussing the perceptiveness of Stannis. Or someone would remember the former master of ships' keen interest in the princes and princess's hair color...

"What can we do?" he asked, returning to the safer topic of the Walkers. "Are there any ways to fight them?"

"At present, there's only fire," Tywin said grimly. 

"That's told by Stannis as well?" Jaime said.

"Not just by him. Jon Snow, Robb Stark's bastard brother, also said that the Walkers can be wounded and killed by burning arrows."

"Oh..." Jaime, disappointed, touched the hilt of his sword. "And there's nothing else?"

"Right now we just know this: fire is the only thing that kills them quickly. Maybe they could be, for instance, cut to pieces with a blade, but they'll break your neck while you'll be doing it."

"Well, I don't believe they can only be defeated with fire!" Jaime said.

"Why?"

"Or else that previous war would have ended with one large burning. But I think there was just the Battle for the Dawn."

Tywin mentally praised himself for asking Arya at Harrenhal about the northern legends of the Walkers. Otherwise he wouldn't have even understood what Jaime was saying: _he_ had never read such balderdash.

"In the Battle for the Dawn," he said, "there were the children of the forest. We don't have them. The giants were hanging around, too – we don't have them either. Oh, and there was a great Hero. Perhaps we have someone like that, but somehow I haven't noticed him yet."

"Well, right, if you look at it this way... But what if we can find the children of the forest? If the Walkers appeared..."

"It doesn't mean everyone else will appear as well. When you find such children, we'll think again. Now we have to consider what is our current strength."

"We have to," Jaime agreed grudgingly – he hated fire as a murder weapon. He had enough of it with Aerys. Seen enough, too. "By the way, how comes you know so much of the Battle for the Dawn?"

"I was told by Arya, who was still a Stark back then. Since we mentioned her, we might come to the second point I wanted to discuss with you."

"So this rumor wasn't lying either, and I have a stepmother young enough to be my daughter," Jaime observed.

"Depends on which rumor you mean. If it mention tainted innocence and so forth, you shouldn't trust it."

"Why have you married her, then?"

"To cement the alliance of the Houses."

Now Jaime was amazed. Cement the alliance, really?! First, Arya had an elder sister, much prettier and more pleasant to talk to. Second, Father would have certainly tried to shove the bride on him – he still wasn't letting go of the hope that Jaime would renounce the white cloak. Third, failing to persuade the eldest son again, he would have married the Stark girl to the youngest. A child wife – such a devious piece of mockery! Although the Starks wouldn't have borne it either... Well, there were Kevan's sons remaining, stupid but handsome. 

But Father – getting married – himself? And not to the beautiful elder sister who must have flowered already, but to the younger, whom Jaime at Winterfell had often mistaken for a stableboy?

"But she..." he began, but Father didn't let him finish:

"If you leave the Kingsguard, the Rock will be yours. If you don't, it will pass to my child by Arya."

"Does the child already exist?" it was scarcely possible, but after all the shocking news poured onto him Jaime was ready to believe just anything.

"She hasn't flowered yet. But if I come back from the war and you insist on carrying this white duster, I'll have to take care to produce another heir."

That was all Tywin for you. He had just said that a war with the White Walkers was coming, like that legendary one, and instantly began to talk of his inheritance, as if all that awaited them was a couple of fights with some minor rebels. 

 _Why was Ser Barristan thrown out?_ Jaime thought.  _It's not just that he was the greatest knight of this century, but now the Kingsguard cloak, apparently, isn't permanent! If he wants, Joffrey can strip me of it too..._

"So. You still don't want to take your vows back."

"They're given for life."

"The white cloak was put on you against your will."

"It just so happened that once in a lifetime Aerys's will was the same as mine."

Tywin's eyes lit up dangerously. Jaime didn't lower his gaze, although he wanted to, he had to admit. What if one day his father would stare at him unblinkingly like this and see that all the talk of his relationship with Cersei was the truth?

And Jaime would have no proper answer to give him. Oh, but why a marriage of a sixty-year-old man to a twelve-year-old girl was odd but overall acceptable, and a genuine mutual love between brother and sister had to be concealed like some wicked crime? Why were the Lannisters worse than the Targaryens?

"What's Thoros of Myr's burning sword made of?" his father changed the subject again. Any other man would be taken aback by the abrupt change, but Jaime was used to such tricks since childhood.

"As far as I know, it's a combination of plain cheap steel and wildfire."

Disappointment flicked in Tywin's eyes.

"Wildfire is too dangerous not just for the Walkers, but for ourselves," he said. "Bringing large supplies of it to the North isn't worth the effort. I hoped it was something else... Do you know any material that can be burned at a lower risk?"

"We can wrap dried grass around the blades," Jaime suggested. "But it won't last long... and in the snowy weather... The fire will die down in a few minutes."

"That's what I mean. All right, there's a task of you: try and think up anything about such substances before we arrive at the Wall. I see how you're looking at your sword – there's a chance to use it in battle."

"Maybe it will be useful to ask Tyrion's advice? He could have read something in his books."

Jaime meekly suffered through another angry stare. No surprises there. He had long given up on his attempts to inspire his father to look upon his little brother more fairly.

"Tyrion is traveling now."

"He'll stop at Riverrun."

"Not necessarily. If they'll be delayed, he'll only send there Lady Sansa with an escort but won't go inside himself. Catelyn Stark won't insist."

"I'll send a messenger to meet them," Jaime said. "Tyrion has read so many books, the ancient and the newer ones, not just the tales of the Seven Kingdoms but also the legends of Essos – I can't believe none of them include a hero with a flaming sword!"

Tywin grimaced a bit, as if he had swallowed a piece of lemon. Jaime was ready for the usual rebuff in the style of "messengers shouldn't be wasted for old tales of dubious truthfulness, even less should they be wasted for Tyrion's sake". But Father said nothing. Perhaps, after there turned out to be quite a bit of truth in the northern fairy stories, he had begun to feel more respect towards such folklore.

"Well," when the silence became too long, Jaime felt he had to say something, "I suppose I should go and talk to Robb Stark? To remind him, so to say, that we're not in the Whispering Wood anymore, or he might get confused..."

"Learn to stay quiet sometimes," Tywin said, irritated. "Useless jokes and a big mouth won't do you good."

He busied himself with some letters, and Jaime, stifling a heavy sigh, walked down, nearly falling from the slippery, moss-covered stairs.

From the tower's windows he already noticed some stir in the yard. The Lannister soldiers were talking excitedly, and among the Stark army and the men of the garrison there was a crazy hubbub. Some people were fighting, some were in a heated argument...

"What's the matter, Addam?" Jaime shouted to Marbrand, who stood in the center of the yard and watched out so that the Lannister soldiers wouldn't burst in the Northerners' mess.

"The Greyjoys," he replied. "Victarion led a sortie near the Neck and took the Young Wolf's brothers hostage. The Northerners are arguing as to who'll go to the rescue. They say, though, that Brynden Tully's marching from Riverrun, but that doesn't stop them – on the contrary, they want to lock Greyjoy down."

 _Hostage? But that's the perfect solution!_ Jaime thought.  _The boys will be taken to the Islands, where the Walkers probably can't reach them, and they'll be kept maybe not in luxury but safe and sound. Theon had been a hostage for nine years, and so what?.._

"I'll go!" Wyman Manderly boomed, towering over his companions. "For House Stark I'll wring the neck of the Kingslayer if needed!"

"Ahem, I'm here," said Jaime, but, naturally, nobody heard him.

"I'll go," cried Dacey Mormont, one of the few women in the army.

"No, let it be me!.."

"Stop it!" a voice came from the Drunkard's Tower. Jaime saw Robb Stark, pale as a ghost, with a now impossibly huge direwolf at his feet.

"As Mother said, Uncle Brynden's taking many soldiers with him. I trust him absolutely. Moreover, there's Greywater Watch where the Reeds reside. Howland Reed was one of my father's closest friends."

"But my King!" Dacey Mormont was one of those who insisted on addressing Stark as King in the North. "Your brothers..."

"Jon, who's my brother as well, sends desperate calls for help. He has seen the Night's King in front of the Walkers' army. The Wall is trembling, in the truest sense. If we wait for a group of you to return or go all in search of Victarion Greyjoy in the Neck's swamps, we'll lose precious time. And how much time do we have? You can negotiate with the ironborn. Not with the Walkers. The ironborn don't want to murder all living things,"  _They just want to seize all non-living ones_ , Jaime agreed to himself. "The Walkers do."

After he said all that with a stony face, Robb disappeared in the tower. The former squabblers stood in dejected silence.

Jaime thought he heard a strangled sob from the tower. Anyway, even if he did, it was immediately drowned by a miserable howl of the direwolf.


	18. Chapter 18

"Arya? I hope you haven't smashed my tiles in there."

"No," Arya said, not even looking at the door. "I tried to make a rope from my dresses and come down through the window."

"And did you manage it?" said the voice of one of the twins with unhidden interest.

"No," Arya said.

When she read Mother's letter, she understood what the latter had been trying to hide – Bran and Rickon had been captured. Had the ironborn simply attacked and been thrown away, would Mother have written about this? Maester Luwin, or whoever it was that accompanied the boys, wouldn't have even told her about it to spare her needless anxiety. 

Arya immediately demanded that Genna let her go to her brothers' rescue with the soldiers from the Rock's garrison. Genna strictly refused.

"You didn't want yourself to hand out our soldiers to the bannermen! And now you want to drive them to the Neck!"

"My brothers are there!" Arya cried.

" _My_ brothers have gone to fight some white monsters, but I'm not running after them like mad," said Genna. "If our fighters drown in the swamp and you get eaten by lizard-lions, you won't help any of them. Either yours or mine."

"Genna, why don't you see? Rickon is a little child and Bran's crippled! They won't survive!"

"The ironborn won't kill them. They're not that stupid."

"Bran and Rickon are in such peril, and I'm the lady of the richest castle in the land and unable to come to their aid! My place is by their side! I won't be able to sit here calmly, knowing that Bran and Rickon are held by these savages!" Arya shouted.

"Well, learn to sit, then!" with surprising quickness Genna caught her by the ear. It wasn't as painful as it used to be with Septa Mordane – the septa's fingers were dry and wiry and Genna's were fat and soft – but it was vexing. "Maggy, Letty, escort Lady Arya to her chambers and lock the door!"

"Oh, my lady," Maggy lamented while they "escorted" her. "Lady Genna's son has been captive, and she's seen her brothers off to war countless times, do you think she doesn't understand you?"

"My lady, why, your sister has been a hostage in King's Landing, and then they let her go," Letty supported her cautiously. "You nobles don't have to fear..."

"Just like my father had nothing to fear, right?" Arya asked, and Letty blushed and murmured excuses.

When Sansa had remained in the capital, it was understandable – Arya wouldn't have been able to help her, if not for Yoren, she herself would have been either imprisoned or killed in the streets. But this time! There were so many people left for the Rock's defense... surely it wouldn't have hurt to take a hundred or two of them and go north...

 

"Arya, my dear, open," it was Dorna's voice again.

"Genna decided to release me?"

"No," Dorna answered sadly. "She'll release you only when she's sure you won't run away. We just came to visit."

"I don't want anything!" Arya yelled.

"Can you fight hand to hand?" the lively voice of one of the twins suggested, unabashed. Was there one of them or both? The voice seemed to be the same... "I know myself: when you're furious, you need to beat somebody up."

"Martyn!" Dorna checked him in a scandalized whisper. Arya smiled and turned the latch.

"Oh, that's good... you poor girl..." Dorna began to sigh, taking a laced handkerchief from somewhere. It seemed that she thought Arya had been quietly weeping into her pillow.

"Dorna... honestly, I don't need it," or she might try to give her a clacker, like she did to Janei when the latter howled and cried.

"Oh, Arya, I know what it's like too! I spend every night in the sept, my heart's all in pain, for Kevan, for Lancel, for Jaime, for Tyrion, for Genna's elder boys... At least Willem and Martyn have returned," she held her son close – indeed, only one of the twins came with her.

"Dorna, you see, I've got experience, I've been to war, I could have really helped my brothers!"

"You led your own party?"

"No, but I traveled with the recruits of the Watch..."

"Traveled?" Dorna chuckled. "I can say the same of myself. Do you think I'm also experienced in battle?"

Arya couldn't resist it and joined in with her laughter.

"The war, my dear, should be left to those who know about it, or we'll only bother them."

_Dorna, you've got it too simplified! Just because I haven't commanded any battles myself, it doesn't mean I'm a shrinking violet like you!_

Arya didn't say it aloud. Dorna wouldn't have understood her anyway.

"When have you traveled with soldiers, as you say?" she asked instead. Dorna gave her a somehow uneasy smile:

"When I had to come with Kevan's party that was sent to teach the western lords better manners. Each of them had either to pay up their debts to the Lannisters, or to give a family member as hostage."

"So it is true?" Arya blurted out. "That you... that you..."

"That I've been a hostage? Yes, that's right. Lord Tytos threw up his hands, muttered helpless excuses and did nothing, Tywin walked around with a grave face and looked at me as if _I've_ thrust _myself_ on them, and only Kevan," Dorna's face lit up with her usual warm smile, "only Kevan treated me humanly. From the very first day."

Arya realized that the story that had just intrigued her would any minute now slip into another treacly tale of empyrean and eternal love, and at first sight, too, as it turned out.

"Why did only... eh... Martyn come with you?" she asked, nodding towards the only present twin. "They're inseparable, as I figured."

"WIllem is mad at you," Martyn said. "He says he'll never forgive it that a wench humiliated him like this."

"Oh, I'll speak with him!" Dorna exclaimed, visibly upset. "To be vexed after a childish fight!"

"Be assured, I don't care, but it's strange: why, in that case, did he agree to the trial by combat?"

"But we didn't know you'll win," Martyn said reasonably. "Well, what about the hand to hand fight?"

Arya didn't need to be asked twice. The bitterness at not being able to help Bran and Rickon still gnawed at her, even though she didn't speak of it. Martyn was right: she was likely to feel better after a nice fight.

"Careful with the porcelain!" Dorna managed to squeak at the last moment. She still wasn't used to Arya and her sometimes completely boyish behavior.

"Don't worry, Mother, we won't be throwing chairs around," Martyn said gently and approached Arya, his fists raised.

The fight indeed helped her let off the steam. She punched Martyn violently, but not Martyn as himself, she imagined everyone at once in his place: Joffrey, Cersei, the Clegane brothers, the Greyjoy traitors, the Mountain's Men... even Tywin at one moment, who put her in this jewelry box, as she took to calling her chambers.

Finally, Martyn gripped her hands and threw her on the floor with considerable force. Arya was glad she hadn't got rid of the carpet.

"Well, are you better?" he asked.

"Uh-huh," Arya said, blowing on the fresh bruises.

"Are you finished?" extremely carefully, Dorna peeked inside the room. "Oh, what madness! Well, you, Martyn, you're a boy at least, but Arya, how is it possible – to fight to make yourself feel easier!.."

"Seems like I'm developed in the wrong way," she shrugged. "All women cry to lighten up their mood, and I fight."

"And it's better that she punches me rather than the porcelain," Martyn pointed at the white walls with a pattern of long exotic leaves. Dorna looked in that direction too. All the tiles remained in one piece.

"You can do hand to hand very good as well, especially for a girl," the boy turned to Arya. "And can you shoot?"

"Yes, very much so!" Arya confirmed it proudly.

"Quick, behave yourself well, so that Aunt Genna will release you, and we'll have a competition!" Martyn exclaimed excitedly. "I've been an archer in the front line under Jaime!"

"So, is it a peace?" she asked, holding out her hand.

"A peace," he took it. "And don't you mind Willem. He'll soon be bored alone and regret his pouting."

Arya wasn't sure, but his friendly tone seemed a bit forced. Perhaps it was his mother who made him make peace with her? Or was it Genna who persuaded him – said that they needed at least an appearance of understanding?

But, since he offered her to do shooting together, she had a companion for her training already.

"And your brothers, I'm sure, will be alright," he said. "The Riverrun garrison is commanded by the Blackfish, Jaime has told me loads about him – he'll surely come to their rescue and manage all by himself!"

 

Genna allowed her to leave the room a week later – three days before the next audience. At Arya's request, the lessons with the maester were now held at the raven tower – in case there was any news of Bran and Rickon. Arya spent almost the entire days in the tower, losing interest in everything else such as the redecoration of her rooms or playing with Janei, and looked intently into the cloudy sky. Even food (after half an hour of arguing with Genna) was brought to her up there.

She only made breaks to go to the inner yard for training – with Martyn she fought hand to hand, and with swords, and with short knives (Martyn taught her that). They loved competing in archery – Martyn was a splendid archer indeed, and the winner was usually him. 

Willem – now it was obvious – hated her in no small way. Arya understood it: not only was his recent main enemy's sister married to the Head of his House, but she had also defeated him in a sword fight! But in his place, as Arya believed,  _she_ would have calmed down long ago. But Willem hadn't. The second Arya appeared in the yard, he defiantly turned to leave, his eyes glinting maliciously. If they met in a corridor, he made a haughty, disgusted grimace like the ones Sansa used to make when she saw a mouse or a cockroach.

If Dorna saw it, she sighed dismally. Arya had to reassure her several more times that she didn't care in the slightest about Willem's opinion of her, that he had the right to hate her, if only there weren't any new tricks like the drawn rope or the salt in her milk. But the tricks hadn't resumed.

By the way, Dorna also came to the tower twice a day – first and foremost, of course, to check if there were any letters from her darling husband.

"I know the ravens aren't often spent on simple letters," she repeated. "But what if... what if something happens... Lancel's in King's Landing, I'm worried less about him... but Kevan..."

Maester Creylen mumbled something compassionately.

During their talk in Arya's bedroom Dorna hadn't lied or exaggerated – she did spend the nights in the sept. One day, on her way from the tower, Arya looked in there – not that she really wanted to check the truth of her good-sister's words, she was simply curious. Dorna was on her knees, weeping softly.

Although there probably wasn't a woman in the world less similar to her, Arya envied her for a moment. Dorna missed her family, and Arya was only able to worry about those who were now, by law, strangers to her House.


	19. Chapter 19

The last days of her journey on the river road flashed by like a couple of seconds. Sometimes Sansa shivered from a dreadful thought: what if all this was a wonderful dream, and at any moment she’d open her eyes in the Red Keep?

But instead of the reddish walls of the capital she saw the lovely blue-and-white towers of Riverrun. Her heart soaring, Sansa watched her mother’s castle getting closer. Her head span with joy when they got near enough to see the people lined to greet them. Uncle Brynden, tall and grey-haired, could be noticed from afar – more so since he stood under his own standard, the black trout. And by his side…

“Mother!” forgetting propriety, Sansa jumped out of the wagon when it had just passed the gates. Although, Catelyn wasn’t observing the rules either and ran towards her daughter instantly.

“My child… at least you’ll be at my side… at least you’re safe…” she cried, holding her in her arms. Somewhere nearby Brynden Tully was greeting the king with strained politeness, then he talked with Lord Tyrion, the soldiers were making a racket around them as usual, but Sansa heard nothing. For a split second there was nobody in the world except her and Mother – thinned, pale, her face wet with tears, but so dear it hurt.

“And where are Bran and Rickon? Have they arrived yet?” she smiled, loosening the hug a bit. The momentary idyll was broken: Mother gave a choked sob, and it clearly wasn’t one of joy.

“They… they… the ironborn captured them in the Neck…”

Sansa gasped. The feeling of a fairytale dream broke apart completely.

“Well, dear niece, welcome!” Uncle Brynden walked to them; as he saw Sansa’s expression, he understood everything immediately and grew somber. “Oh, Cat has told you already… It’s horrible, of course, to hear such news at once when you’re at the doorstep… But don’t lose hope. I’m going to the rescue today, with our men and the Lannisters’.”

“Did they really agree?” Catelyn exclaimed. “And Joffrey?”

“He liked the idea of Victarion Greyjoy getting drowned in the swamp in his own plate armor. He won’t go himself, naturally – and good riddance to me! – but he agreed to give soldiers.”

“Will you make it in time?” Sansa whispered.

“We will,” Uncle Brynden said firmly. “The Manderlys have played well for time. And Victarion Greyjoy is an utter fool outside of a ship.”

In spite of his assurances, the day was hopelessly spoiled. After a rushed introduction to Lady Roslin Frey, Robb’s shy young wife, Sansa wandered around the castle aimlessly for a long time, and then sat by Mother’s favorite fountain statue, where she was found by Lady Catelyn who had calmed down a bit.

“My poor sweetie, what sort of life is that – I can’t even be cheerful about our reunion, and I’ve been so afraid for you…”

“Oh, Mother, but me too, when I learned of Bran and Rickon, I didn’t know what to do, what to think… How is it there? Have they assembled the party?”

“They have! They’re leaving now!” Mother wiped off a tear. “Lord Tyrion – I’m so ashamed – he was ever so kind with me, he said such a speech before the soldiers, so many of them volunteered afterwards…”

“He has been very kind to me too,” Sansa agreed, smiling faintly. “In King’s Landing he stood up for me even in the hardest of times. Almost nobody did.”

“Stood up for you?” Catelyn whispered. “What… what… happened? What did they do to you?”

“I’ll tell you later,” if she described Joffrey’s cruelty towards her, a fight would be unavoidable, and the astonishingly quickly-made truce would collapse like a castle of sand. “It’s all right now.”

Mother hugged her and kissed the top of her head:

“Forgive me, Sansa… forgive me… I should have protected you. I should have protected you all – and I couldn’t!” she burst into tears, hiding her face on her daughter’s shoulder.

They heard resounding steps.

“We’re going now, my people are tired of waiting and the Lannisters’ hadn’t the time to get tired of marching, since it’s only noon,” said Uncle Brynden as he came to them, already in his chain-mail and armed.

Catelyn grasped his hand pleadingly:

“Bring them back, Uncle, I beg of you!”

“I’ve promised you, Cat,” he smiled at her and turned to Sansa:

“I’m sorry, dear niece, we couldn’t give you a merry welcome. But soon I’ll return with the boys, and we’ll welcome everyone at once!”

Sansa nodded uncertainly. She was afraid to hope for anything good. Already the fact that she was with her mother at Riverrun seemed a pure miracle after everything that had happened.

“Come, Uncle, we’ll see you off,” leaning on Brynden’s arm, Catelyn gestured for Sansa to follow them.

In the yard of Riverrun the troops were distinctly divided into those who were going to the Neck and those who were staying. The former were standing in a column, facing the gates, while the latter, some looking ashamed and some superior, sat on the benches and the trunks, sipped the wine, some of them had the local serving girls sitting on their laps.

Tyrion waddled towards Brynden.

“Had I been taller, I would have gone with you,” he said sympathetically. “I wish you luck, Ser Tully.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Lord Tyrion, please, pardon me for…”

“My lady, it’s the fourth time you’re asking my forgiveness, and I’ve told you that, as we’ve found out, it was none of your fault,” but it was obvious he was pleased. Sansa thought that the universally mocked dwarf rarely heard any excuses.

Somewhere near the gates, Joffrey cried cheerfully:

"...in his own armor, you know that his armor suit is even heavier than the one... the ones some of our knights wear! And then you'll bring him to me and show what he's like, a kraken in an iron pot! A kraken in an iron pot!" he repeated, laughing, in case someone hadn't got the joke.

Tyrion shot a meaningful glance in that direction:

"You'll have to endure my nephew along with me, and that's where I have to apologize. I've frightened him with the Walkers, so he seems to be behaving himself for now. Nevertheless, don't get delayed, because the poor ladies will have to stand me and Joffrey combined..."

A squire brought Brynden a horse.

"Useless extravagance, just for the speed," the Blackfish said, petting the stallion's muzzle. "Well, time to go!"

He nodded to Tyrion, kissed Cat and Sansa on the cheeks, jumped into the saddle and went forward. After him, the whole column slowly moved ahead. 

"If only they are on time, if only they're on time, if only they're on time..." Catelyn whispered, squeezing Sansa's shoulders.

Joffrey ran after the group to the gates, shouting the last instructions as to what should be done with the ironborn and how:

"Cut the heads of the rest, and bring them to me in a boooox!" he yelled from the gates after them. Sansa had hoped deep down that the king would change his mind and follow them in the end, but it was in vain. As he saw that the soldiers didn't hear his commands anymore, Joffrey, very pleased with himself, came back.

"Don't you want to watch the harpooning for fish, Your Grace?" Tyrion appeared in his way.

 

_The whole country has gone to protect the Wall from the dangers beyond it. Never have such fancy words contained such complete truth._

He put down the letter (given to him by some street urchin) and closed his eyes. His heart froze. Real monsters were beyond the Wall, not some villains from fairytales or old legends, not some scattered wildling tribes, no, the White Walkers had come...

Father – with his black brothers, he was on the front line... Was he still alive at all?  _I'll hear out a thousand curses from him, he may chop my head! If only he were alive, if only he lived..._

And his aunt and cousins? The youngest were children still! Or maybe these damned white beast couldn't swim? Although the bay could get frozen solid, and the way would be open to anyone who wanted it...

His first impulse was to bolt to the harbor, board the very first ship he saw, and put a sword against the captain's throat, even if he had been the most bloodthirsty of sea robbers. To demand they brought him home. To come to help, drive the Walkers away from his beloved home, save Father if he was alive, and then – come what may, they could behead him, hang him, quarter him if they liked!

He had already darted towards the sea – when he stopped in his tracks.

_How can I leave her alone? Her, so beautiful, helpless and naive, in this snakes' den! How can I part with her at all?_

"What happened?"

Her voice!

"What's the matter, Ser Jorah? You look like a ghost! Are you sick?"

How lovely she was, with those amethyst violet eyes, that charming smile... Even when her hair had been fully burned, it hadn't spoiled her beauty, but now they were growing back again – as if the silver halo of a moon surrounded her little head... Jorah looked straight into her face, he forbade himself to look lower: these blasted local dresses bared one of the breasts...

_I won't be able to leave her... But how can I confess where – from whom – I learned of the Walkers?_

" _Khaleesi_..." he choked out. "There's terrible news from the Seven Kingdoms..."

Daenerys grew worried:

"What's going on? The Young Usurper has learned about me? He sent an army to Essos? He's leading it?"

"I wish!" he blurted out.

"What do you mean?" she frowned.

"A danger from men, _khaleesi_ , is something we're used to. But there's something a hundred times worse looming over Westeros. You've given birth to dragons in fire, but an unknown force gave birth to merciless white monsters in the ice and snow."

There was a hint of disbelief in her look. Had it not been for the horror of the news, Jorah would have laughed: her, Mother of Dragons, the only woman to lead a  _khalasar_ , the Unburnt – doubted that ice and snow could beget monsters.

"I swear it's the truth."

_Varys wouldn't have even thought of something like this. Perhaps I should confess to her? She'll forgive me... No, I can't! Later! Later!_

"Where have you learned it?"

"From Illyrio," well, it was half of the truth. "He won't lie on such matters."

"What are these... white monsters?" she sat by his side. "Tell me more."

He told her. All the legends he had heard in his childhood, all the fairytales of heroes and children of the forest that his mother had told to amuse him, all the scary stories about the Walkers and the Long Night his nurse had frightened him with when he hadn't behaved himself.

"So they... you say... they exist?" Daenerys blanched. "But no one has seen them for a long time!"

"The dragons,  _khaleesi_ , also haven't been seen for a long time."

"I can save my kingdom! The ice won't survive the fire!" she jumped up, but grew downcast immediately. "But the dragons... they're too small. Will I make it in time?"

However, she hadn't thought for long:

"We have to go to Westeros today! On our way there my children will grow – and if they destroy the Walkers, I won't need an army, the throne will be given to me!"

" _Khaleesi_! What are you talking about? You – against these ghastly creatures?"

She looked at him with pity:

"I'm touched by your care, Ser. But my land's in danger. What sort of a queen am I if I hide in foreign parts?"

"But you can get killed, you aren't used to the frosts, you..."

"Please stop it. I'm not a fragile maid. I'm the Mother of Dragons and the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. It's my duty to be there and bring my children to the rescue."

He desperately tried to argue, but she gave him once more that look full of pity, and Jorah realized that she knew about his feelings. She had known for a long time, it seemed. And he also realized that there was no answering passion in her heart.

_But it's for now. She's very young, and she hasn't even mourned her husband properly. And if we go home together, she might... she might... what if?_

"Then,  _khaleesi_ ," he said, pretending he hadn't noticed this pity that cut him so, "we still need to prepare for such a campaign. We have to have at least the ships for the dragons. And you could do with a trained army: someone who won't ask needless questions, who won't be scared of either the sea or the Walkers, and who'll obey you absolutely."

"Can you find such men anywhere?" Daenerys chuckled mirthlessly.

"Yes. In Astapor."


	20. Chapter 20

Hardly a week had passed when the Walkers attacked again. The horn boomed three times, waking everyone in the middle of the night, and Allard, dropping the keys in his agitation, let the prisoners out, and the women under the guidance of Selyse and Melisandre lit up the arrows. 

 _Now I have to go through it. I can't be fainting like a silly greenland-dwelling maid,_ Asha repeated to herself, often wanting to grasp Qarl's arm and shut her eyes tightly. Gripping the bow handed to her and taking a fire arrow from Selyse, she aimed at the bluish silhouettes in the darkness.

The years of training and sailing paid off – her hand barely trembled while she was aiming. The blue shadows were coming closer and closer, and once more had they let the people ahead... not people anymore, though... she wasn't to think of it!

"Fire!" some Seaworth's voice commanded seemingly far away.

Several dozen of flaming lines crossed the night sky. The arrows rained on the Walkers' army.

Like in a dream, Asha looked at the fire flaring up on the bluish bodies... some of them were falling, turning into a single ball of flames, and some kept on going, having shaken off the sparks, like a dog shook off water.

"Here."

Asha gave a start when she saw the red priestess with a new merrily burning arrow. Red fire on one side, blue ice on the other... and herself – on a shaky bridge between them that would collapse at any moment.

And the Walkers were so near now. Asha wanted to avert her eyes but couldn't: closely watching the blurry shapes, with the bright blue eyes glimmering faintly on their hardly discernible faces, she shot the arrow at Seaworth's command (now she even heard that it was Allard).

This time, she could clearly see how and which of the monsters were affected by the fire. The dead people were engulfed by flames instantly and fell down in ashes, but the Walkers were bothered by it yet not so much as to be hindered.

One more arrow, and still one more... Asha felt that the world shrunk down to the Walkers' horde, surrounded by a frosty mist, her rigid fingers holding the bow, Allard's shouts, and the woman in a scarlet dress with scarlet hair, deftly lighting up the arrowpoints.

At last the illusion was broken by another voice:

"Stop the arrows! They're retreating. Footmen, after me!"

Raising his sword (also a flaming one), Stannis Baratheon charged ahead – the astonished Asha didn't even see where he had come from. Almost knocking down the tarrying archers, the foot soldiers, each of them with a sword that was at least smoldering, rushed after him.

To be honest, Asha certainly wouldn't have said the Walkers were retreating. Then again, her duty now was not to command, but to obey, and she wasn't watching the enemy's moods... if such creatures could have moods at all. 

But it looked like Stannis had been right. Meeting with the flaming swords, the Walkers halted. Transfixed, Asha watched as they slowed down, stopped for a moment... and began to retreat in earnest.

"Yes! Greyjoy and Pyke!" she shouted in the fullness of her heart. To her surprise, it was the only victory shout to sound in the castle.

"It's not a victory," Allard Seaworth told her gloomily.

"What do you think it is, friend? A defeat?" Qarl pointed towards the returning footmen – not a single one of them appeared to be even wonded.

"It's worse. Had we been killed out now, it would have been clear at least. But as it is – they're playing, like a cat with a mouse. It's not the main part of their army, a pack of third-rate troops – the bulk of the Walkers is at the center of the Wall. And even on these troops, we're wasting arrows, men, our strength..."

Asha began to understand.

"We'll run out of it all sooner or later," Allard concluded. "And then they'll be free to storm the Kingdoms."

 

For her next audience, Arya arrived in her formal man's attire. Genna kept a blank face but gave a meaningful "hm" (Arya noted that it was also a common habit of hers and of Tywin's). 

"Lady Sybell with her daughters, Lady Jeyne and Lady Eleyna, of House Westerling of the Crag!" Red Walder announced.

Before Arya's eyes flashed maps, genealogies and white shells on a sand-colored background. She pulled herself together: the Westerlings were among their chief bannermen, and she had to get on with them. She couldn't let it be noticed that she was restless in her anxiety over Bran and Rickon...

Sybell Westerling was a short and still a rather beautiful woman of forty-odd. Her daughters – thin dark-haired girls – clung to each other shyly.

"I greet you, Lady Lannister, and I wish you happiness in your marriage," thankfully, she didn't bring up children at least. "Please accept this small gift from us," the maidservants accompanying them brought in a small chest. "It's spices."

The gift was good and, unlike the unicorn, really useful. Spices were a priceless treasure, especially in winter – and Arya liked their taste.

"Thank you, my lady. They will come in very handy."

"Oh, I am happy to be of service!" Lady Sybell exclaimed and was apparently ready to praise her dearly loved overlords for another minute or two.

"What is the other purpose you have in coming to us, my lady?" Arya stopped it quickly.

Her guest looked upon the floor and for several seconds seemed to consider it. Then, raising her head, she took a couple of steps ahead and said in a confidential tone:

"Lady Lannister, my sweet daughters Jeyne and Eleyna have grown up. Please tell me: could they mayhaps serve you at the Rock? Both are smart and bright and obedient. I'm afraid that because of this war they'll overstay it at the Crag, the poor things."

Arya looked at the girls with surprise. What would they be doing here? They couldn't wield swords, and if they had "overstayed it at the Crag", they were even more fragile and naive than, say, Dorna.

"I thank you, my lady, but I have an excess of servants as it is. If you want, your daughters can wait on Lady Genna."

The girls let out a quiet gasp and edged back.

"I..." Lady Sybell glanced at Genna, who was looking at it all with interest. "I would like it, my lady, for my daughters to be with a lady their own age."

Their age? Eleyna looked a year or two older than Arya, and Jeyne was close on twenty, if not older!

"I will think over your offer, Lady Sybell. Wait for two days until I give you my answer."

 

"For some reason, I don't like the way she behaves," Arya admitted over dinner, which she was having with the rest of the family, for the first time in a while, because she wanted to discuss Lady Westerling. "I don't know why. I don't want to offend them or anything: they're one of the noblest houses around here..."

"Noblest but not richest," Genna said. "Right now, the Westerlings' money is nothing but this very Sybell's dowry, earned by her father and grandfather for these very spices."

"So you're against me taking these girls as ladies-in-waiting?"

"Decide it yourself," Genna shrugged. "They’ll be serving you and not me."

"Oh, but there's nothing especially wrong!" Willem suddenly said. "It's just that Lady Sybell comes from a merchant family, of course she wants her own dear daughters to have connections among the nobles. Besides, the Starks and Tullys have unwed men – she surely hopes you'll put in a word for Jeyne and Eleyna..."

Willem hadn't even finished when Arya knew she wouldn't be taking any Jeynes or Eleynas in any of her service. If Willem for some reason took their side, he was possibly their friend. If he was, he'd play them against her. Just what she needed on top of everything else! The Harrenhal maids and Maggy were doing excellent, and Arya saw no reasons to install ladies-in-waiting as well.

"We'd better be careful," Martyn said. "Lady Westerling sees Arya for the first time, and she's already offering her daughters to wait on her. There's something fishy."

"Arya's now here," Willem cringed, "the wife of the overlord, you see. She'll be getting such requests all the time. What's the matter if she didn't know them before?"

"Willem," Dorna interrupted, "please be more respectful when you speak of Lady Arya."

He scowled.

Arya was racking her brains to figure how she should act. If she answered with a flat refusal, the Westerlings could be vexed and believe themselves humiliated. But there was no point in playing for time and promising something, either: it would only enrage them more in the end...

She was sure she didn't want to consider her last solution: asking Tywin's advice in a letter. He wouldn't be pleased, to put it mildly, if she peppered him with questions on trivialities such as the choice of ladies-in-waiting. He obviously had no time for this now. But even if he did reply, he'd probably write her to throw them out, and without him, Arya didn't want to take such risky steps.

For a moment, she had an idea to write to Cersei and send the Westerling girls to court, but Arya decided against it too. First, she simply wouldn't be able to write a polite and friendly letter to the queen. Second, even though she didn't like Sybell, it was plainly cruel to send naive young maidens to King's Landing.

"Fine," she said. "Dorna, maybe you'll take them as companions for Janei?"

Janei, hearing her name, looked up first at Arya, then at her mother, but, seeing nothing interesting, went back to her glazed biscuits. 

"No, sorry, Arya, I can't do it," Dorna shook her head. "Kevan doesn't like them much. Lord Gawen has once tried to betroth Jeyne and Eleyna to Willem and Martyn, but Kevan refused, because who knows what are their relations on Lady Sybell's side."

"I see..." Arya searched through other possibilities. Where else could she send these girls? "Oh, there it is: let's send them to Lord Morvin of Lannisport."

"That's possible," Genna said. It couldn't be discerned whether she approved of her decision or not.

"Does he have a wife, daughters, anyone of the sort?"

"He's got a wife and sisters, so they could use some ladies' company," Genna nodded. "You better go and talk to them yourself – it's a bit improper that I'm settling all the matters with Lannisport for you. First the marriage of Roselle Farman, now this..."

"What if news of Bran and Rickon come while I'm out there?"

"Lannisport is a two hours' ride away, not more. It won't run away or anything. You aren't going to be their guest for a month, are you? So don't fret."

"Indeed, Arya, it's even better than torturing yourself with worry all the time without a break," said Dorna. "I, for instance, spend the day with the children, and sew and embroider in my free time – if I spent every hour in the sept or in the raven's tower, I'd have run mad long ago. You don't have children and you don't like to sew – really, at least go and visit the vassals..."

Arya was forced to admit her good-sisters were right. Spending some time away from "the jewelry box" would be nice, too. Perhaps the port city would remind her of the dearer and more familiar White Harbor where Arya had been twice, visiting the kind and portly Manderlys with Father...

"Good, I'll go," she said aloud. "Tomorrow morning, I think. Now I'll go and ask Letty to help me get ready."


	21. Chapter 21

“If Victarion Greyjoy was on the Fever River, he’d be noticed by now from the towers of the Moat, and further on the Saltspear also lies in open places. He’s dumb but not that dumb – he must be in the swamps,” Brynden explained, stopping after about an hour of walking the causeway.

The swamp was looking especially unfriendly today – following recent rains, the water had risen, and lizard-lions had already been spotted once or twice. Brynden wasn’t afraid of these so much – lizard-lions never attacked in packs, and one or two were easy to deal with. He was more worried about a Greyjoy trap, and even more about simply not finding them.

“Close to the causeway,” the Blackfish continued, “we’ll hardly find any trace – I hope everyone sees it, right? We stick together, to be able to fight in case of anything and to avoid tracking down each other, but most importantly, not to drown. Further, I don’t know if everyone around here knows about the truce, so I don’t advise you to yell _Casterly Rock!_ at the top of your lungs. The crannogmen might hear you before they see me. Finally, I’m telling you over and over again: if you aren’t planning to drown yourself, better keep close and follow my instructions.”

Brynden has rarely been in the Neck beyond the causeway, but there were enough marshes in the Riverlands as well. He hoped the northern wetlands weren’t much different from the southern ones – merely bigger.

He inhaled deep and said:

“Well, now, each of you, cut a long pole,” he pointed to the large bushes and trees on the sides of the causeway, “then we’ll line up, ten people a row, about five yards from each other, and – forward.”

“What if the Greyjoys are all – er…” one of the Riverrun soldiers pointed down. Brynden clenched his teeth: he forbade himself even to think of it.

“Some of them could have drowned, but not everyone: there’s many of them.”

_I mean, I hope it’s so._

“But if they, well, stumbled into the bog… surely they must have abandoned the hostages!” said some youth from the Crownlands. Brynden hadn’t the chance to react to his words – Clegane was upon the youth in no time.

“Victarion Greyjoy, unlike you, has some brains in his head, even if they’re rotten!” he roared. The boy shrunk. “If he loses two Starks at once, he might just as well leap headfirst into the bog!”

What Brynden certainly hadn’t expected at Riverrun was that the Hound would be the first one to volunteer to go to the Neck. As far as he knew, Sandor Clegane was always at Joffrey’s side and never took a step away unless at his order or the order of one of the Lannisters. Well, formally there was an order here: Joffrey had been very pleased with the idea of drowning Victarion Greyjoy in his own armor. But Clegane… first he said he’d be going with Brynden, and then he told Joffrey about this idea so that Joffrey would allow him to go. Why had he arranged it? The Blackfish couldn’t see.

They stepped off the causeway. Brynden, the Hound and several higher-ranked gold cloaks were in the first ten – and Brynden was now sure that, whatever Clegane’s motives, he was pretty useful. Apart from Tully himself, he was the only one who walked perfectly calmly – the rest were nervous and shivering.

“Stop shaking like rabbits, you’ll only get sucked down faster this way,” Brynden hissed to the nearest gold cloaks. He hadn’t raised his voice, for fear of getting excited and careless himself. He didn’t want to make extra noise either, even though the party was already doing so much rustling and ploping and cracking that they could forget about trying to stay unnoticed.

But all the time, watching the soldiers, checking his steps with the pole, Brynden remembered the main thing: searching for traces. Until his eyes hurt, he scrutinized the tangles of branches and the mossy hillocks, he listened out for any voice in the neighborhood. However, there was nothing definite. A couple of times branches had been bent, as if a man had been going through the place, but there was no evidence of a large group anywhere.

After about an hour of walking, a lizard-lion attacked the third line, in another half an hour two of them charged at the front one. Both times, just as Brynden had foreseen, there had been nothing to fear: the lizard-lions backed away after getting hit with the poles, there was no need even to take out the swords. Most likely, they hadn’t been hunting – they would have hardly attacked a large armed group for food – they must have had their nests somewhere and decided to snap their teeth at the strangers.

The second attack, though, was nearly followed by a tragedy: one of the gold cloaks, a red-haired young man who before that had behaved quite well seemed to have forgotten where he was and leaped after the lizard-lion. Three steps to the side, and of course the marsh started pulling him down.

“Lie on your pole and crawl back!” Brynden shouted. “Nobody panics!”

He lay on his own pole and was ready to crawl and get the unlucky man out, but the latter managed by himself; thankfully, he wasn’t so far from firm ground. The gold cloak became brownish green, like a skin of a frog, but otherwise the youth was unharmed.

“There,” Brynden said, standing up. “Got it?”

“Yes, ser,” the redhead said guiltily.

“Thank your lucky stars the lizard-lion swam away: it could have bitten off your leg while you were busy drowning.”

The party set off again, but soon Brynden stood still: somewhere nearby he heard the rustling of other men’s steps. Judging by the sound, there was a small group coming from the opposite direction. The rustle was very quiet, they couldn’t have been the Greyjoy men, and Brynden wasn’t surprised when he saw the sturdy crannogmen in their camouflaging clothes the color of wet leaves, with harpoons and nets.

“Blackfish!” the leader exclaimed. Looking closely, Brynden happily recognized Howland Reed – since Robert’s Rebellion he had aged and grown a bushy fair beard, but it was him. “Are you too looking for Greyjoy?”

“Yes, and you already know what happened?”

“For sure we do,” Howland said through gritted teeth. “My own Meera and Jojen were with the Starks.”

Although there was little good in the news that the younger Reeds had been captured as well, Brynden’s spirits rose. The more valuable hostages Greyjoy had, the more carefully he’d treat them.

“It’s dusk now, and in the darkness your lads will become food for the lizard-lions before they find anyone,” Howland continued, calming down a bit. “Let’s go to our Greywater Watch, and tomorrow at dawn we’ll march together. We’ve searched through the north of the Neck already, practically up to the Moat, and there’s nobody there.”

 

The legendary Greywater Watch, or Greywater for short, resembled a gigantic wicker hut; Brynden remembered his merry childhood days, when Hoster and him often built such twig houses, both by the rivers and in the trees – another matter was that they had been in no way close to the scale of the Reeds. When the two parties together came to Greywater (or rather, Greywater floated on a crannog to them), the Blackfish, and not just him, spent a lot of time gazing incredulously at this child’s dream brought to life. 

Inside it was almost the same as outside – damp, dark and cool. Only several candles were lit; there was a smell of sawdust. Brynden didn’t care, especially since he was mostly preoccupied with tomorrow’s march, but the prissy gold cloaks and the youths of Riverrun scowled.

“We don’t light much fire over here, sorry for that,” said some lean boy from the crannogmen. A boy? In the light, dim as it was, it soon became clear that it was a pretty fair-haired woman a little younger than Howland.

“Jyana, my lady wife,” the latter introduced her.

The gold cloaks and the riverlanders whispered with each other.

 _Green boys,_ Brynden thought disapprovingly. _Asha Greyjoy, the women of House Mormont from the North, the Snakes – there’s plenty of women who fight side by side with us! And they’re staring like at some whale from the southern seas._

“I’ll bring you some salted fish and cranberry wine,” she said in the meantime. “We haven’t been expecting so many guests, so… not much around here…”

Though everybody was tired, nobody wanted to sleep. The fishes that Jyana Reed had brought had long been picked to the bones, but sleep didn’t come, no matter how long Brynden sat with closed eyes. There were some curious occurrences as well: some of his people got, who’d have thought, seasick – the crannog continued to float, after all.

For a while the hosts and the guests had sipped the cranberry wine and drowsily squabbled, remembering each other every slight since roughly the coming of the First Men. After Brynden and the Hound shouted each at his soldiers, the topic changed, naturally, to the Walkers.

As it turned out, the crannogmen were still sitting in the Neck, because their guerrilla troops had absolutely no experience with open battle. Robb Stark had had an idea of sending the Reeds’ army over the Bay of Ice to attack the Walkers from the flank, but then the Greyjoys went rampaging at sea, and the plan had to be delayed.

Howland stubbornly insisted that his son Jojen dreamed of something that would immediately shed light on how to fight the Walkers. Even the crannogmen themselves were listening with polite smiles, casting meaningful glances at the wine bottle that was quickly getting empty.

“They’re all batty here, in these huts,” Clegane put it more plainly as he sat by Brynden’s side.

“No matter, as long as they help us,” the Blackfish said. “Is it too damp for you here?” he didn’t want the southerners to fall sick in the cold they weren’t used to. “Should we ask the Reeds to light some more fires?”

“My loafers might be damp, but not me. And we don’t need fire,” Clegane said pointedly. Oh, yes, he must have had awful memories because of his ghastly burns…

“Tell me, why have you come with me at all?” the cranberry wine, even if Brynden had drunk just a couple of mugs, inevitably loosened the tongue. “You have no ties to us or to the Starks.”

“The dwarf promised some rewards,” Clegane said indifferently. “Gold is always useful.”

“And how do you know you won’t be gobbled up by the Walkers before the rewards are handed out?”

“I think they don’t gobble, they turn you into walking corpses,” the Hound corrected him. “Well, what’s there to do – if I have to get burned, I’d rather die _before_ it happens.”

He took another sip from his mug:

“Bloody cranberry. Pity they don’t have Dornish red.”

 

Brynden had dozed off just before dawn, only to be quickly shaken awake by Howland:

"Get up, ser, get up! My scouts have capture an ironborn!"

"Just one?" he mumbled groggily, but quickly came round and jumped up.

The ironborn was sitting on the floor. Thin and tall, he was so covered in ooze that he looked like a big, trembling lizard. He had already been given a warm cloak and a cup of hot water, and he was smiling uncertainly and ingratiatingly, glad to have been found at all, even by the hated crannogmen.

"Name?" Howland walked to him.

"S-S-Stef-far N-N-Netley."

"Speak clearly!"

"I, I... I al-always st-stammer, my lord. The, the, they c-call me the S-Stammerer."

Howland grunted something angrily, but decided not to dwell on the subject:

"Where's Victarion Greyjoy headed?"

"Our sh-ships are at the F-Flint C-Cliffs. W-we were going th-there."

"Are the hostages alive?" Brynden joined in. Steffar's eyes grew round: he obviously recognized the black fish on his chain mail.

"Yes, they're al-alive, s-ser, y-your n-nephews and the R-Reeds. B-Bran S-Stark, he c-can't w-walk, but he w-was l-like that before, upon m-m-my w-word!" the ironborn's teeth rattled. "That lack-lack-lackwit is c-carrying him on his b-back."

"I know," Brynden said impatiently. "To the point. Does Greyjoy want to sail with the hostages?"

"N-n-no, he s-said wuh-wuh-we sh-shall wait for the exchange on the sh-shore."

"Excellent!" Howland clapped his hands. "Then we'll catch them. Boys, where have you found this Netley?"

"Three hours' walk to the west," a crannogman reported. He was just as mudded as the captive but didn't look depressed at all – he must have been one of the scouts.

"So close?"

"T-two d-days ag-go I w-went f-fishing f-for the crew and g-got lost," Steffar explained. Howlend stared at him with suspicion, but it didn't look like the ironborn was lying.

"Fine," said the Lord of Greywater. "How many men do you have?"

"With me – f-five-and-s-seventy. S-six have drowned in the m-marsh."

"Here you go!" Howland clicked his fingers proudly, as if it was him who personally created the marshes of the Neck. "It's not so easy to pass in our lands! Well, it will be easy with five-and-seventy. Since Ser Brynden has brought a relief, there's no need for the whole crowd to go. Jyana, stay at Greywater," he looked around. "Greengood, Blackmyre, you're with her. The rest – with me."

He was walking to the door when he turned to Steffar. Steffar shook and coughed.

"The proper way, we should have thrown you out of here, and you'd have walked by yourself," Howland said thoughtfully. "But every man counts now, with the Walkers and all... All right, live. You seem to be fond of fishing, so you'll be with the fishermen. Jyana, take care of it."

The crannog hit the land – meaning the relatively solid hillocks. Howland's people got off first, moving as easily as if they were walking on the smoothest part of the river road.

"Let's go," Brynden said too. "Don't forget the poles! Do you think the crannogmen will bother with pulling you out?"

The effect of the speech was a bit smudged by the loud smack when he landed into the ooze – thankfully, not in the bog itself – but everyone took their poles, and that's what mattered.


	22. Chapter 22

Things weren’t going too well in the army. The existence of the truce, of course, didn’t mean that all the Northerners immediately began to respect the Lannisters, so during every stop in a castle or a village it was necessary to be on one’s guard, so that the strained, biting politeness between the hosts and Tywin’s soldiers wouldn’t grow into open taunts or even fights.

Robb Stark was smart enough not to say anything about his sister’s marriage, if only he wasn’t asked directly – Tywin, honestly, had been prepared that the latter would announce their new relationship at every corner.

The martial spirit, both among Robb’s and Tywin’s men, wasn’t too high either after the many days of march. It was very nice to dream about heroic deeds and the Battle for the Dawn when you sipped on Dornish red at Harrenhal, but the dreary and monotonous days on the Kingsroad changed the perspective a little, especially when it was getting colder and colder as they were coming further north. The Northerners, naturally, were more used to such weather, but they started to grumble that no terrible Walker hordes could be seen and they had to deal with the march, the discipline and the southerners’ company.

Even the loyal Kevan, when he thought nobody saw him, often sighed wistfully, his face turned to the south-west. Tywin, even though he didn’t approve of such sentimentality, felt sorry for his brother. If he could, he’d have taken Kevan’s sons with him, so that Kevan would have been near a part of his family at least. But Lancel, dullish and not too skilled in battles if obedient, wouldn’t have been of much use – the sight of him would have only stained the Lannisters’ reputation. Willem and Martyn were boys still and – yet more important – had to stay safe in case anything happened to their relations. After Kevan’s children, the inheritance could be contested either by the Lannisters of Lannisport or by Genna’s brood, and Tywin wasn’t planning to give any of them even the slightest chance.

Robb Stark had a trouble of his own – his younger brothers. He could hardly wait for the army to finally reach Winterfell – when there was definite news of the boys, Winterfell would get a raven for sure.

This stop was on the road in the midst of a field, so at least they had no problems with the locals. Tywin went out to stroll around the camp before sleep – it was dreadfully stuffy in the wagon.

He found Kevan – who’d have doubted it? – behind the farthest tent, gazing at the stars thoughtfully.

“The same stars are now shining on Casterly Rock,” he commented. Over the thirty years of Kevan’s marriage to Dorna Tywin had learned all their favorite sayings.

Kevan gave a start:

“Tywin! Can you manage without sarcasm?”

“I’m sorry,” only his brother and the late Joanna ever heard these words from Tywin. “Actually, I think Robb Stark will allow you to send a raven from Winterfell to the Rock. I don’t understand why you should waste a raven merely to inform them you’re all right… but Stark might understand.”

Kevan smiled, a bit embarrassed:

“You won’t send a letter to your wife, of course?”

“Why? Her brother will certainly write to her.”

“Tywin,” his brother grew serious. “I… you know, I always trust you… but please hear me out. She’s twelve, she’s totally alone among her recent enemies! You remember how hard it was on Dorna when her father handed her to us, and Dorna was older!”

“I don’t remember, in fact. I was more busy with the Reynes back then.”

“And Dorna had me, while Lady Arya has no one at all – her husband ignores her,” Kevan wasn’t going to give up.

“She settled in at Harrenhal very artfully. With her strong character, she’ll get familiar with the Rock even sooner. And I don’t ‘ignore’ her. I simply don’t wish to waste ravens.”

To his mild astonishment, Kevan didn’t start lamenting over his lack of feelings again – quite the contrary, with every phrase of Tywin’s his smile grew wider.

“Good, then _I_ shall write to her!” he concluded. “You know, in the end of my letter to Dorna I’ll surely put in a couple of words for Willem, and for Martyn, and for Janei, my baby, even though she probably doesn’t remember me anymore, she’s growing up there without her father…” Kevan murmured sadly. “And for Genna – and for Arya. I’ll tell you that you haven’t forgotten her strength of character.”

“And it will be the truth,” it wasn’t the first time Tywin noticed that his kindly and calm younger brother sometimes was as good as himself in perception and the ability to get the necessary answers at the necessary moment.

_I should be more careful with Kevan… No, he can write whatever he wants to Arya, he can write her rhymed love confessions on my behalf if he likes it. But I always think him dullish, like his Lancel, and he’s not dullish at all. My brother, after all… If I have my brains, with a father like ours, why can’t Kevan be smarter than he looks?_

“She’ll be ever so happy,” Kevan explained. “I remember how she looked like when she was leaving Harrenhal – lost, downcast, even if she tried to pull herself together… She must be thinking everyone has forgotten and abandoned her…”

_Most probably, at my side he behaves, on purpose, like an obedient, soft-hearted and not particularly wise family man – so that I won’t take him for an enemy. And, indeed: if he had been like me, we wouldn’t have been such friends. I would have constantly expected a knife in the back._

“Don’t you agree, then?” Kevan finished. Tywin chuckled: in any case, his brother was clever enough to acknowledge his leadership.

“Of course I do.”

“How wonderful! Winterfell is close – I’ve began writing Dorna’s letter already, so in the end I’ll put a postscript for Arya, too, from you. Oh, all right, I won’t bother you anymore,” either it was his ever-present tactfulness or he had really forgotten that it was Tywin who bothered him first.

“Don’t worry. I’m leaving now. Look at the stars for as long as you like and think of your Dorna,” he patted Kevan’s hand and went to the center of the camp.

Halfway there, he turned and looked back. Of course, Kevan was still standing there, his head turned to the sky and a dreamy smile on his lips.

 

It could be seen from far away that there was a commotion in the center of the camp. As he saw a small crowd and heard the clank of steel, Robb grew alert – but he instantly realized that the blades were crossing too consistently and regularly for it to be a real fight. 

The crowd was pretty diverse – both his men and Lannister soldiers were mixed up there. Nobody noticed Robb – they were too absorbed in the spectacle. 

On a piece of clear ground, by the fire, two people were engaged in a sword fight. They were moving so quickly that at first Robb didn’t even recognize the man… the woman from his own closest circle of friends. Dacey Mormont’s opponent, upon a closer view, turned out to be Addam Marbrand – his red curls were fluttering, so swiftly was he attacking and dodging. 

“Come, show the wench her place!” the Kingslayer yelled cheerfully from behind the fire. 

“Dacey, beat up this bastard!” Robin Flint’s voice immediately came from the crowd.

“Don’t give up, Dacey!” Robb shouted too. How rare was such jolly ease among the two parts of the army! How could he keep these relations up until the end of the campaign?

“Oh, my lord, you’re here,” Olyvar pushed his way towards him. “That redheaded Marbrand set his sights on Dacey, and she brushed him off, you know that she won’t let a Lannister bannerman even come near her. Little by little, they made a bet: what happens sooner – her defeating him in a sword fight or him seducing her.”

“And what are the odds?” Robb smiled. 

“If he wins now, she gives him a kiss, and if she wins, he gives her five flagons of ale,” his squire giggled and waved his hands, cheering for Dacey who seemed to be winning. 

But then, as she ducked too abruptly to avoid Ser Addam’s new lunge, the girl slipped and fell. The southerner’s supporting party led by Jaime didn’t even have a chance to breathe in the air for triumphant cries – as she was falling, Dacey managed to push him so hard, that Addam, certain of his victory, dropped after her. And right onto her. 

“A draw!” Jaime Lannister bellowed. 

“A draw! That’s it! We made it!” both sides shouted. 

“But will anybody be paying?” some disappointed voice asked. 

The Kingslayer decided to be the referee:

“ _Both_ will pay!” without thinking long, he declared triumphantly. 

The audience erupted with laughter. Several people discordantly started to sing: _A bear there was, a bear, a bear!.. All black and brown and covered with hair!_

“The bear is me!” Dacey said, trying vainly to push Addam off herself. “Who’s he, then?”

The laughter grew louder. Dacey and Addam were now in a fistfight – the girl adamantly refused the kiss, shouting that the Kingslayer has favored his friend. Robb looked at them attentively to make sure she didn’t need help – but nothing like that. Addam clearly wasn’t going to force her for real, and she (as Robb suspected) was mostly resisting for the appearance’s sake.

Something croaked in a distance. Robb rushed there – naturally, he only saw a common grey crow, digging its way into a pile of scraps. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. Even the smartest raven of the Citadel wouldn’t find an army on the move. 

Still, his cheerfulness subsided. Where were Bran and Rickon? Had Uncle Brynden found them? Or were they in chains, shaking from the cold in a dungeon of Pyke or in a basement of a ship? Or had they vanished in the quagmires of the Neck? And Maester Luwin, Hodor… the boys at least were considered valuable hostages, but what would happen to their escort? A treacherous inner voice spoke: perhaps he should have sent a group, the Wall was solid, a few days’ delay wouldn’t have changed anything…

Lost in his thoughts, Robb almost collided with someone. 

“Lord Lannister,” he nodded, stepping back at the last moment. 

“Lord Stark.”

“Looks like our men are having a friendly talk for the first time today.”

“A ‘talk’ is a mild way to put it,” the laughter and shouting wasn’t getting any quieter. “But we might call it an improvement. Most of mine were already grumbling that they didn’t know where they were going and what they’d be doing there and that they were cold. If _that_ is the way they get distracted… it is better they get distracted.”

“My men were in the same moods,” Robb sighed. “Even my guard – that’s what my closest friends call themselves – well, even they were already murmuring: won’t it be better to make war with the Greyjoys? Only Dacey never said that. The Mormonts are among our most devoted vassals.”

“And the Marbrands are among the most devoted ones of ours,” said Tywin. 

From the direction of the fire, they heard:

“Why only three flagons of ale?”

“Because it wasn’t a kiss! It was three fifths of a kiss!”

“Fat chance!”

“Dacey, if you’re this indomitable on the battlefield, I won’t be surprised if you slaughter every single one of the Walkers by yourself!”

“Oh, you’ve figured out what sort of compliments I want, congratulations. After the ‘enchanting eyes’ and ‘stature of a cypress’ this is something.”

Every phrase was accompanied by merry murmurs from the respective side. 

“And why are you wandering around here, I’d like to know? If Lady Mormont’s your friend, I would have expected you to be among these bawlers.”

“I can’t think of it now,” said Robb. “I don’t know how my little brothers are faring… if my wife has reached Riverrun… I have no idea whether we can defeat the Walkers and if yes, then how.”

Lord Tywin, of course, considered only the last point to be important. 

“Now we’re thinking of different ways to use fire. Jaime plans to find out if we can somehow make burning swords for close-ins.”

“Yes, I’ve thought of it too!” Robb said. “Maybe we could pour oil over them?”

Tywin slightly raised an eyebrow – it meant the thought was worth something. 

“Talk to Jaime. We must test it. We don’t know how long they’ll burn in these snows.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Can you ride a horse?” asked Genna.

“Yes,” Arya said joyfully. “Although I haven’t practiced since we left Winterfell.”

“Nearly two years, you mean? A pity, but no matter, we’ll give you a calmer horse, and you’ll catch up quickly.”

“Maybe it would be better if Arya goes to Lannisport in a carriage?” Dorna asked.

“Dorna, spare me! I’ve ridden in wagons enough! I’m sick of them!”

“Besides, if Arya goes on horseback, there’ll be fewer questions about her man’s clothing,” Genna added perceptively. “And indeed, why does she need a carriage for two hours? The weather’s still good, and her suit is warm. We’ll give Arya an escort. Let her stretch her legs.”

“But not a _very_ large escort, please!”

“Of course not! Lannisport is close, the people are loyal, and you don’t need to flaunt our wealth on a short trip like this. Twenty men should be enough.”

These twenty men included both twins. They were astride wonderful if rather elderly warhorses (all the best steeds had of course gone to the Wall with their masters), and Arya was very sorry she had told Genna just how long she hadn’t ridden a horse. Because for her, there was a small and fragile brown creature with a curly mane and big sad eyes. There were ribbons in the mane.

“Dorna, is it yours?” Arya asked with resignation.

“Yes,” Dorna said – she had come to see them off. “But how did you guess?”

“Who else but you would _adorn_ a mane with ribbons?” Genna shrugged, clearly amused. “Arya, Bigeyes is the calmest mare in the stables. What could we do if you confessed yourself you haven’t ridden for quite a time?”

Willem rolled his eyes, watching from his dappled stallion as the pouting Arya was helped up into the saddle. Even Martyn sniggered to himself – so ridiculous did Arya look on the tiny mare.

"All right, we'll get you a larger horse later if you like," said Dorna apologetically, petting Bigeyes' muzzle.

"As long as you don't get lost behind on the road," Willem added and set spurs to his horse which darted into a gallop. The dappled stallion, as soon as he left the Lion's Mouth, seemed to forget he was old.

Arya snorted and spurred on Bigeyes.

The mare, despite her misgivings, turned out to be nice. There was a good side to her utterly friendly character – she calmly accepted the new rider and in the end even sped up to a pretty fast trot. Willem and Martyn, who started with galloping off like lightning, soon stopped the chase – there was no point in exhausting the horses, especially since they weren't in any hurry – and for the most part of their trip they rode head to head with Arya.

The road ran along the hills and the Sunset Sea. Unlike the steely grey waters of the Bite that Arya had seen in White Harbor, the Sunset Sea had a warm, emerald shade to it, but instead of the white sandy beaches of the northern bay its shores were covered only with thicket and pebbles.

On the other side of the road there were sometimes villages in the hills. Several times, the party met with groups of wayfarers – they were mostly peasants who had gone to the city to sell their cattle or find work.

"My lady, my lords!" they cried in unison as they stepped aside and took off their hats when Arya and the twins passed by with their men. To be honest, Arya would have like to get to know them – she was afraid she'd go crazy, surrounded by nobody but Lannisters and their dutiful servants – but she realized she wouldn't be able to sneak off to the villages like she used to do in Winterfell. If she could, for example, make a tour of the nearest villages – she was Lady of the Rock, after all...

They reached Lannisport in less than two hours, and it could be seen even earlier than that.

"Half again the size of White Harbor," Martyn said as if matter-of-factly when he saw Arya looking at the houses on the horizon.

It wasn't just the matter of size – the only thing White Harbor and Lannisport had in common was apparently the presence of a sea and ships. The narrow, twisting streets of Lannisport, every second one of which was occupied by a raucous market, bore no resemblance to the wide roads of White Harbor, straight as an arrow. In the Manderly lands the neat, massive houses of two or three stories were almost always whitewashed – here, the various sorts of houses, from tiny huts to practically mansions, were all similar in one aspect: they were all built in that notorious Westerlands style. Even the fishermen's houses were decorated with carvings or gaudy painting, and some with flower garlands.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Willem exclaimed with delight. As much as Arya wished to agree with him (all the way there Willem had been on his best behavior, and she began to hope they could still make peace) she couldn't bring herself to the same measure of awe. Yes, she liked the lively alleys of Lannisport, but this endless pomp now seriously bothered her.

"Very," she said nevertheless.

The gates were watched by about a dozen guards, who meticulously examined and questioned every newcomer – Arya had heard that the City Watch of Lannisport was organized far better than the gold cloaks. Of course, nobody questioned  _her_. Seeing the Lannister standard, all the guards gave a deep bow and then bolted upright.

"My lady," the elderly captain said respectfully. "Believe me, it is a great honor to us."

He gave a less elaborate bow towards Willem and Martyn – judging by their faces, they knew him well.

"I'm glad to see you back, my lords."

"We're also glad about it," Martyn laughed. "Good day to you, Ser Verlyn. Arya, this is Ser Verlyn Wavelann – one of the senior-ranked local guards and our one hundred and eighty-fourth cousin or something around that."

The full introduction, with several more ceremonious bows from Ser Verlyn, took about ten minutes, but Arya didn't regret it – she liked the guard. Even though he spoke to her with flowery politeness, she could see he was genuinely friendly with the boys and that his subordinates liked him.

Ser Verlyn wasn't the only descendant of Lann the Clever she had met that day in the city. It looked like there was no other place in the world with so many blond green-eyed people at once. Sometimes she had to make an effort to spot anyone with black or red hair in the crowd, and Martyn was constantly drawing her attention to the myriad of Lannyses, Lannys, Lannells, Greylanns, Farlanns and the rest of them. When they finally got to their destination (a small marble palace called, who'd have doubted, Lanniscourt), the girl's ears were ringing with all the variations of Lann's name.

Lanniscourt was situated a bit away from the sea, and it was separated from the bedlam of the city by a tidy garden – as Martyn explained, it had plants acquired from nearly every corner of the world. Arya was gazing at strange flowers looking like long yellow cones when Martyn pulled her towards the entrance.

Lord Morvin Lannister received them in a sitting room almost directly behind the door – a welcome change after the mazes and galleries of the Rock. The Head of the family's junior branch turned out to be a short thin man of about five-and-forty, with a narrow face and a pointed chin. His wife Lady Ylinde was just as slim and sharp-nosed as him.

"We're happy to finally meet the new Lady of the Rock," said Lord Morvin, after all the ceremonies had passed and the guests had sat in the armchairs. "How do you like the West, Lady Arya?"

"It's all very new to me, but there's a lot of things that I like," she said.

"Our eldest son Ser Lymold is in the North right now, in your lord husband's army," Lady Ylinde smiled. "Just this morning we got his raven: they're approaching Castle Cerwyn, and your Winterfell is right after it. He's so interested in your traditions! Especially in these curious weirwoods."

"Oh! They're already at Cerwyn?" Arya exclaimed. Willem raised his eyebrows, and Martyn made an undefined grimace.

"Yes, hasn't your lord husband told you?" Ylinde said in surprise.

Arya felt she had said something wrong.

"I think he's busy leading the army," she said, trying to sound joking.

"Oh, of course. But don't worry, my lady: your brother misses you very much, Lymold writes that Lord Robb definitely wants to send you a raven from Winterfell."

"Ser Lymold's incredibly observant. I wonder how he manages it on the march," Arya said. Ylinde looked a bit abashed:

"Yes, my lady, our boy's like that..."

Morvin took the initiative:

"My lady, you must have come to discuss something about the marriage of Raynald, our youngest, and Lady Roselle Farman, right?"

"What? Oh, no, I fully trust Lady Genna, I believe she's told you everything already. I have another matter to discuss," and Arya told them about the petition of Lady Westerling. "I don't need companions of that age – would you agree to take Jeyne and Eleyna?"

"Oh, it would be wonderful," Ylinde said immediately. "I'm so lonely without friends... Alys and Teora – that's Morvin's sisters – are always quarrelling with me..."

"But wait, Ylinde, won't the Westerlings be offended?" her husband interrupted. "They must have wished to be introduced at court..."

"If they want to go to court, they should appeal to Queen Cersei!" said Arya. "Of course, I'm formally married to the Head of House Lannister, but I don't believe the queen will ask me for advice on choosing her ladies-in-waiting."

"Probably you're right," Morvin agreed at once.

Arya looked at him. Suddenly, she had the feeling there was a performance going on. With her among the actors, but without her knowledge.

_But why? Tell me, someone, what's so important in this matter? Neither they nor myself need these Westerling girls so much. Am I offering them Casterly Rock? Or joint rule of the Westerlands? I have no influence upon the queen, and the queen herself, well – she really only has the title, Tywin says... Do they want to butter up Tywin through me? It's an odd way they've chosen, if they do. There, Lady Bethany Doggett – she congratulated me, and gave me the unicorn, and thanked me; that's flattery right enough. And what about these two? They aren't even so keen on compliments..._

"Well, if Lady Sybell Westerling doesn't object," Morvin continued, "I have nothing against it."

"And I'm only in favor," Ylinde beamed. "I'm going mad with boredom."

"By the way, my lady, my lords," he nodded in the direction of Willem and Martyn, sitting still like statues, "I would like to use the opportunity to invite you to Raynald's wedding. It will take place in a moon's turn."

_More weddings? I've had enough with my own, thank you very much! I want to see my real family and at least visit my home – not to go to strangers' celebrations held in honor of some other strangers!_

By an effort of will she forced herself to pull herself together. So it went, since she was now Lady Lannister, she was stuck. She'd have to do many other needless things. The weddings of vassals unknown to her surely weren't the worst she could get.

_I could have married Elmar Frey, and nobody would have invited me anywhere, because everyone would have given up on me._

"Arya?" prompted Martyn. She realized that she had the pause stretch for too long.

"Yes, of course, thank you, Lord Lannister," Arya smiled, trying not to sound hopeless. Judging by the chuckles of her hosts, she didn't succeed. 

"I understand, you must be tired of festivities, especially in a time like this," Ylinde winked. "You've only just wed Lord Tywin yourself. But look on the other side – a wedding's not a war, there'll be no bloodshed or fights!"

"Can't argue with that," said Arya. "Thank you, my lady."


	24. Chapter 24

Soon after the victory that turned out to be worse than a defeat, the prisoners’ life changed. It started with the guards leaving the door, and then Allard stopped locking it completely. Moreover, the rations became larger – of course, they were already hardly different from what the rest of the troops survived on, including the Baratheons and the red priestess, but it was still noticeable.

On the second day of such favors Asha opened the door and quietly slipped out of the cellar.

Nobody was sitting and waiting for her to walk into a trap, and the priestess wasn't standing with a torch at the ready near a built fire.

"Everything's calm," she turned. As they heard it, Cromm, Eerl Harlaw and Hagen with his daughter Gerda followed her – she left Qarl in charge of the rest.

Naturally, Asha wasn't going to run away (there was still no place to run), even less to fight with the Baratheon men (not only they had the numbers, but she strongly suspected that for any rebellion she'd be handed over to Lady Melisandre). It was much simpler: she wanted to test the waters.

Where, so to say, lay the border to their new freedom.

The castle was terribly quiet – while they were going up the stairs, Asha shivered with a sudden thought, however absurd, that the whole army had been smashed by the Walkers. But no – looking out of the window, she saw that most of the men simply lodged outside, and the incredibly thick stone walls of Westwatch hardly let any sound through. 

Somebody was in the castle, too – right in the hall there were tents and fires (all of them thankfully small – it seemed no one was burning for now). The few soldiers who were walking around shot occasional glances at Asha and her companions, some were indifferent, some interested, but nobody was raising the alarm about escaped prisoners and standing in their way with a drawn sword.

Asha had a new suspicion. What if it was a trap after all? If they were being lured out of the castle only to be grabbed and put on a pile of firewood? No, it couldn't possibly be so, even the priestess herself had seen that the men from the  _Black Wind_ were a good help to Stannis's archers.

"Lady Greyjoy."

Asha was startled. Melisandre herself was standing right in front of her, having seemingly appeared out of the blue. How could she creep so soundlessly? And with such a sarcastic condescending smile that suggested she knew what everyone was thinking.

"If you want to burn us," Asha gripped her axe, "you better give up!"

"We’ll fight for the captain, tooth and nail," Hagen agreed, taking out his dagger.

"Had my king decided to sacrifice you," the red priestess answered without a trace of fear, "he wouldn’t have let you walk around the castle. He wishes to talk to you."

She gestured for the astonished Asha to follow her. Cromm, Eerl, Hagen and Gerda, no less confused, trudged after them. However, as she looked back, Arya easily noticed Hagen openly ogling Melisandre, who was elegantly striding ahead of them. He wasn't the only one  ****– many were admiring the priestess.

 _He thinks of me only as a daughter, and that bloody-haired witch gets him drooling at a glance! Because he's a redhead himself, or what?_ She wasn't attracted to the hairy, nasal-voiced Hagen at all, but it infuriated her how easily he got distracted. And by whom – by the red priestess who'd have sent them all to the stake, if not for their skills at archery!

Stannis and Selyse Baratheon were sitting near the door on a strangely shaped stone – probably a piece of some statue. Selyse was forcing herself to smile, but it looked even worse than her usual annoyed grimace. 

"My lord, my lady," said Asha with a bow. She wasn't going to flatter too much – everyone still remembered the battle at Fair Isle, where the forces of Stannis had crushed almost the whole ironborn fleet. But she wasn't going to risk impudence, either, because of Melisandre who was calmly standing near.

"The king and queen should be addressed a bit differently," the priestess said with a sweet smile.

For a couple of seconds Asha wanted to clench her lips tight and keep silent. Then her common sense got the better of it.

"Your Grace," she said, bowing again to each of them. Both Stannis and his wife said nothing during that exchange and didn't move a muscle.

_They can only get a kingdom for the iron price. What idiot, apart from the Seaworths and the red priestess, would bend the knee to them?_

"Lady Greyjoy, you have seen our true enemy," Stannis said finally. It wasn't clear whether it was a question or a statement. Either way, Asha had no doubt:

"The White Walkers, my lord. I'm sure of it after the last two battles."

"Don't think that your new rebellion is forgotten."

"Of course not," Asha didn't intend to forget it either. She had to learn lessons from her shameful defeats... even if she didn't know whether she'd ever have a chance to use such lessons.

"However, now we should unite against the threat from the Lands of Always Winter. Your crew is very good with bows, so I have decided to give you freedom within Westwatch-by-the-Bridge – until the war with the Walkers has ended."

"Thank you, my lord," indeed, such a favor could only last until the war's end. Afterwards – either they'd be butchered by the Walkers, or... apparently, Stannis himself would deal with them. Asha had learned from Allard Seaworth how that man had knighted Ser Davos for bringing food to the besieged Storm's End – and chopped off three of his fingers for the fact that the food had been smuggled. So, no matter how the ironborn would prove themselves in the battles with the Walkers, they couldn't have hope for clemency. "I only ask for mercy for my crewmen. They only went to battle out of their duty – I'm their overlord's daughter and their captain."

"They don't have an overlord," said Stannis.

"How?" Asha exclaimed. "What does it mean? My father may not be the king as he styles himself, but he's Lord of the Iron Islands, by his right..."

"The usurper Balon Greyjoy is dead," said the priestess. Asha turned to her sharply:

"What? When? Was he murdered?"

"He died of a stroke at Pyke; Lord Blacktyde discovered the body and sent a raven to the Night's Watch," there seemed to be a trace of pity in the woman's white face. "I understand you. He was a usurper, but he was your father."

Asha was so confused she couldn't even grasp it fully. She hadn't thought at all that Balon could die – she was afraid for her weak and maddened mother, but her father had been healthy and strong...  Yes, Melisandre, may she drown in a storm, was partially right – Balon had twice and very foolishly started a war against the whole country. But he had loved Asha, he had been proud of Asha, he had given her the ship, allowed her to wear men's clothing and wield weapons...

_Died of a stroke. You want me to believe that?_

The Baratheons' faces were still unreadable. It enraged her terribly. She could get to their cruel justice – the Iron Islands' customs were hardly more merciful – but as Asha saw this icy calm her hand reached the axe by itself.

"Well, so I'm moving above from the cellars, along with my men, and I'll help you against the Walkers. Fine, I agree," she concluded, unable to bear the silence.

"My lady," Stannis said through his teeth, giving her a tiny nod. Asha finally realized: he simply didn't understand how to deal with her. It was difficult enough for him to talk with ordinary men and women, and a sight such as the Kraken's Daughter must have made him perfectly bewildered.

 

A boat from Ten Towers brought the news, and now he didn't know what to do. As Rodrik's messenger said, there was going to be a kingsmoot on the Iron Islands. Being the only brother of Balon left and the only Greyjoy not in captivity, Victarion would have liked to give it a chance.

But there was that driving question: what was he to do with the hostages? He had been feeding the crowd for no reason for quite a while now. Balon had needed them. He himself hadn't. Could he drown them in the marshes? But for the death of two of his brothers, the Young Wolf would charge at him at once, and if all he had heard was true, the boy had won every battle. On dry land the captain wasn't so sure of his own strength. Perhaps he'd be able to defeat Stark, but at what cost? No, he couldn't kill these two boys. And not their escort, either, because in that case the crew would have to take care of the hostages. 

Taking care of two children, one of whom was a cripple and another not even four years old, and of their wolves, each of whom was guarded by ten ironborn even now... No, that was the last thing he needed.

The little Starks, thankfully, weren't much trouble – Bran was carried by that overgrown dullard and talked only with the Reeds and the old maester. Rickon tried to shout and fight several times, but the same maester calmed him down.

Victarion didn't like to watch the old man fussing over the children. Every time it reminded him that, because of the damned Crow's Eye, he would never have sons like that himself.

 _Estlyn..._ So much time had passed, and she still stood before him as if alive. Her wonderful soft curls, her cheeks, pink from the sea wind... Had it not been for Euron, she would have probably given him children by now, and, who knows, in these musty swamps he'd have been together with a strong, curly-haired son as his squire... And he would have known that it wasn't the same ghastly loneliness that awaited him on Pyke, but her gentle embrace.

 _And as it is, I'm sitting in this swamp, there's nothing to look forward to, and I've got the dead weight of the Stark brood, and I don't know where to put them._ Would he ever see the ransom? Robb Stark, as he recalled, hadn't been in any hurry to exchange the Kingslayer for his sisters. He needed the boys more, though – while he was childless, Bran was the heir...

Victarion imagined staying here for several more months and shuddered. Compared to the Flint Cliffs, the tiniest of the Iron Islands were a rave of color and life.

His crew was hardly more cheerful than himself. It had been amazingly easy to capture the Starks and their retinue, but since then they had wandered the Neck for a long time, lost seven men simply to the bog, and now were sitting on the gloomy northern shore and couldn't even leave.

He skimmed a flat piece of limestone. It jumped up nine times and sank with a _blorp_ on the tenth.

Long ago, Estlyn had smiled at him for the first time, looking at this easy trick.  _You lied, Euron. She couldn't have come to you wet and willing._

It grew dark. It was hard to light a fire here – the swamp bushes hardly burned, and if they were lit up after all, they had an unbearable acid stench. To avoid messing with these fires, Victarion ordered only two to be lit. Supposedly, one was for the crew and one for the prisoners, while really both the former and the latter huddled up at random.

The Humble brothers were just cutting branches for the kindling when the boredom was instantly gone. A harpoon stuck out of the bushes, hit Quellon Humble's thigh (he cried out and dropped his armful) and vanished.

"Crannogmen!" Victarion yelled. "To arms!"

But as he finished, he saw it was even worse. From the rocks on the shore, there came – how could they crawl there unnoticed? – Howland Reed (the young Reeds cried "Father!"), Brynden Tully, easily recognized by the black fish sigil on his chain mail, and some freak with a burnt face.

"You are surrounded, Greyjoy," Ser Brynden said coldly. "Better hand over the hostages and go your way to these Islands of yours."

"My nephew and niece," said Victarion. Since it wasn't clear what he had to do, he stuck to the old plan. "Only in exchange for them."

"Only for them? Maybe we should also bring the Iron Throne?" Howland Reed said. "Give back my children and both of the Starks at once."

Victarion silently took his sword by handle, not taking his eyes off them.

Brynden reached for his own sword with the same gesture, but for the burnt freak it was all going too slow. Drawing his blade at once, he roared and lunged at Victarion. 

" _Iron Victory_ , forward!" the latter shouted, backing aside.

"Tully and Riverrun!" the Blackfish shouted back.

The battle cries merged into a single unintelligible one, and a motley partly of northmen, westermen and crannogmen attacked from three sides at once.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of the chapter might seem over-fluffy. Don't worry, it's not for long at all...

In Val’s opinion, one of the kneelers’ most disgusting and unnecessary traditions was parley. She understood, of course, that the opposing armies’ leaders had to meet and discuss all the terms in detail to form an alliance, but how dreary and long such meetings became if the southerners were involved! And what’s more, even after the alliance was more or less secured, the crows, especially the higher-ranked ones, continued to behave like on the negotiations’ first day: talking calmly but barely hiding their contempt.

The free folk had it better. If you don't love someone, fine, don't hide it. But why ally yourself with someone you can barely stand?

If it wasn't for the white hordes, sometimes approaching the Wall and sometimes almost fading in the woods like white mist, there wouldn't have been any question of a truce, the kneelers would have just gone on fighting Mance.

In the very first days after Jeor Mormont’s gritted-teeth meeting with Mance Rayder, the young crows were often genuinely surprised that the wildlings, as they called, weren’t monsters or beasts but people just like them. Since then, the recent recruits had been the ones to adjust to the news, and when their Lord Commander wasn’t looking, they were quite brotherly with the men of the free folk… and not quite brotherly with the women. Val had lost count of the black-clad boys whose puppy looks followed her wherever she went. 

Not that she had anything against the crow nestlings, as she quietly nicknamed them, but they were all so very weak. She drew her knife when one of them came too near, and the lad was instantly dejected and mumbled apologies. A nestling, nothing more than that. Nothing like her Jarl.

As for the Walkers, everything was unclear. They pushed Mance's army to the Wall, but, oddly, afterwards the white monsters had rarely attacked at all. They hovered close by, a dull and faceless mass in the snow fields, killed every fool who tried to sneak in their direction, but never advanced. If a flaming arrow hit a Walker or a wight, he was instantly replaced by two or three unharmed ones. 

Mance once said it reminded him of a southern tale, about a giant lizard: if you chopped its head off, two new heads grew in its place. 

The western castles sent word that the Walkers sometimes attacked but, for now, had always been thrown back. Jeor Mormont announced that there was news from the south too: a united army led by several lords was marching to help the Watch. How sweet – barely a year had passed! With such way of doing negotiations, it was a wonder they hadn't needed more time to unite.

"Everyone wonders, you know, how the Walkers managed to strike us so suddenly and how nobody had suspected a thing for so long," Dalla sighed one day. Ever since she conceived her child, she had been prone to such speculative musings. "But you look at them – the order, the accord, everyone goes together, nobody gives commands, they don't need to! And what of us? Even Mance has to deal with petty squabbles among our men. To say nothing of the kneelers – each of them must be dreaming to stab his neighbor."

"There's nothing surprising, it's just that in the south, you have to lie all the time," said Mance – he was sitting near and quietly trying some melodies on his lute. "The crows, for instance, give a vow to forget their families – and whoever keeps it, may I ask?"

Val chuckled: her crow nestling admirers were always talking of fathers and mothers, of brothers and sisters, of faithless brides and wives...

"Take today, for instance," she nodded. "I saw that squire of Mormont's – he keeps his mouth shut in front of his commander, he agrees with everything and doesn't say a word, and today I passed by and saw how he hugged his wolf and sniffled. His family, I gather, has fallen on some hard times in the south – someone kidnapped his brothers, and his sister was forced to marry someone he doesn't like – and he's sitting here and torments himself because he can't come and help."

They pitied the boy, of course, but neither Val nor Dalla could really share his grief. They simply couldn't imagine it – had Val, for example, been captured by enemies, Mance and Dalla would have rushed to help at once. The women, born and raised beyond the Wall, genuinely couldn't fathom why the young steward couldn't do it as well. Mance had told them about the Watch's vows, but Val and Dalla saw no more reason in these strange traditions than in simple crows' croaking.

 

Rickon was angry. All this that had started with the fat king's arrival to Winterfell decidedly wasn't to his liking. First Bran fell from a tower and was asleep for so long, and they couldn't wake him, and Mother sat by him day and night like a statue in a crypt, seeing no one else. Then Father, Jon and the sisters left, and then Mother and Robb did too – at least, well, Bran woke up. 

Then Maester Luwin said they were leaving as well, they had to gather their things in a hurry and a fuss, and on their way, they were attacked by pirates – Rickon didn't even see where these had come from, they seemed to have fallen from the sky, angry and hairy. Shaggydog defended Rickon with all his might, and Summer protected Bran, but some awful pirate snatched Maester Luwin and said he'd cut his throat if the wolves weren't calmed down at once.

Actually, the captivity wasn't too frightening – nobody threatened to kill them anymore, and the maester explained that Bran and Rickon would certainly be kept alive: they were to be exchanged for Theon and his sister. But the pirates dragged them through the marshes, forbidding them to make a sound, and now they had stopped on a grim stony shore and were always shouting at the prisoners and at each other.

And now – again, seemingly from nowhere – there came these men with pitchforks and nets and charged at the pirates. Rickon didn't understand the mess at all, and all he could do was tightly hug Shaggydog with one arm and Maester Luwin with another.

"Don't be afraid!" said the maester. "It's Ser Brynden!" he pointed at one of the fighters who had a normal sword instead of a pitchfork.

"Mother's uncle Brynden, he's also called the Blackfish," explained Bran, who was sitting on the other side of him. For Rickon, it didn't mean a thing, but since it wasn't just any fight, since it turned out they were going to be rescued, he watched the battle with more interest.

Even he could see how skilled was this unknown uncle of Mother's. Like a true fish, Brynden seemed to glide out of a crowd of enemies without effort, and as he struck, he turned and twisted with unbelievable litheness. 

Another attacker, whose terrible scarred face looked vaguely familiar to Rickon, fought in a completely different manner – he went straight ahead, throwing his opponents away. Rickon saw that the man was making his way towards them, towards the captives crouched at a distance from the battle, and he didn't know whether he should be glad or the scarred man would bring some new distress. Ever since Theon's betrayal (he learned of it from the maester's talks with Rodrik Cassel), Rickon didn't know whom and how he could trust.

He noticed the pitchfork men dragging Meera and Jojen into the bushes, and the latter weren't looking scared at all.

"Why are they taking them away?" he whispered, clutching at Shaggy's fur as if someone was already dragging him somewhere too.

"It's their kin, the crannogmen," said the maester. He was sitting shielding the boys and constantly turned to look at the fighting. The ironborn weren't giving up – whatever their faults, they never lacked courage. Thankfully, they didn't use arrows, spears or darts, but Maester Luwin was still frightened the children would somehow be struck.

And then there came something completely unforeseen.

The crannogmen, led by Howland, got distracted as they carried the young Reeds away (Meera, though, demanded they gave her weapons and allowed her to fight). Meanwhile, Victarion's men got a surge of fresh strength when they saw that a good part of the enemies had left the battlefield. The pirate captain himself lunged at Brynden with a roar, and the latter was momentarily struck by the suddenness of it and got almost crushed by a dozen ironborn.

He wasn't confused for long – his sword glimmered in the air again, and the pirates stepped back. Sandor Clegane (Maester Luwin recognized the man with burns) pushed his way to help him, but before he got there, something like a black catapult missile flew in Brynden's direction.

With a loud growl, Shaggydog sank his claws in the shoulder of the pirate closest to the Blackfish. To the maester's astonishment, the wolf didn't use his teeth – rather like a human, he was attempting to drag the attacker away.

Nobody had figured out what was going on, when Summer leapt to the black direwolf's aid. This one snapped his teeth at the pirates' legs, and some bites were oozing blood already. 

Maester Luwin stared at all that in complete amazement. It wouldn't have been strange if the pirates had tried to kill the boys. But how could the direwolves come to help Brynden Tully, whom they hadn't met before? How could they even guess who was in the right in this battle and who was in the wrong? Did the legends of the direwolves' inhuman wisdom have some truth in them?

He turned to the boys and froze. Bran and Rickon were lying with tightly-shut eyes, hardly breathing at all. Asleep? How could they fall asleep in all that noise and shouting?

The Blackfish knocked Victarion Greyjoy off his feet and put his sword to his throat. The returning crannogmen surrounded the ironborn.

The direwolves, rumpled a bit but apparently unharmed, jumped back. Summer snorted and jerked his silvery head, as if trying to shake something out of his ear – and at the same moment, Bran trembled and opened his eyes.

"I told you," he smiled, "I told you of my wolf dreams! Jojen has told me they were true! And Rickon's there, too!"

For the first time in years, the maester was speechless. In silence, he watched Bran shaking Rickon away, then ruffling Shaggydog's hair, telling Rickon to come back.

"Jojen isn't around – what do we do?" Bran exclaimed. "What if Rickon can't return?"

Finally, Shaggy, too, shook his head and sniffed, and Rickon stood up, blinking with a confused look.

"I jumped at these," he pointed towards the ironborn. "I tried to drag them away from Uncle Brynden. Why am I here again?"

The ironborn were already bound; when there were no ropes left, the rest of the captives were wrapped in nets. Meera and Jojen were waving happily from the bushes, near the opposite rock, Hodor was getting up...

"Are you all right?" the Blackfish came to Bran and Rickon. The direwolves roared at him warningly, as if they hadn't been the ones to defend him so fiercely minutes before.

 _It wasn't them_ , the thought was in his head, but the maester refused to accept it. He was hardly listening how Brynden cheerfully explained to his nephews who he was, how he introduced the fair-bearded Howland Reed and Sandor Clegane (the maester was belatedly surprised that Joffrey's guard dog, as he was called, was even here), how he said Catelyn sent her love...

The direwolves, now assured that the newcomers weren't dangerous, sat and wagged their tails.

 

In the middle of the night, Arya was woken up by a knock on her door. Half-asleep, the girl grabbed Needle that was now always lying at her bedside, and jerked up, pointing the sword at the door – she had dreamed she was at Harrenhal again, and now she thought the Mountain’s Men were coming to torture her. 

"Who’s there?" she cried and only then realized where she was. 

"Arya, that’s me," Dorna said from behind the door. 

What was it? Kevan’s wife was too shy and tactful to wake her without obvious reasons, but there was no fear in her voice. 

"Nothing’s happened, quite the contrary!" Dorna seemed to read her thoughts. "A raven has just come from Moat Cailin – your brothers are rescued, safe and sound!"

"What?" throwing the sword away, Arya ran outside, nearly colliding with her good-sister. "Truly?"

"Here," Dorna, smiling, handed her some papers. "It’s supposedly from Lord Manderly and addressed to us all – Genna, myself and you – but really half of the letter is written by Ser Tully and the Winterfell maester for you personally. 

Arya threw her arms around her, nearly sobbing with joy and overwhelming relief. Bran and Rickon weren’t murdered by pirates, they hadn’t drowned in the marsh or at sea, they weren’t locked in a dark dungeon on the Iron Islands. They were alive! Since the raven had enough time to fly to the Rock, they were probably now on the causeway or even at Riverrun already! After such a lot of bad news Arya wasn’t sure she wasn’t still dreaming. 

Dorna held her, stroking her hair. It wasn’t always easy for her to deal with Tywin’s little wife, sometimes Arya was like a thistle – thorns whenever you looked. She didn’t understand her fondness for fights and men’s clothing, her willful temper, she just couldn’t get it why Arya was annoyed by the room designs at the Rock. As for what the Lannisters’ family life would be like if Tywin returned from this war, Dorna was afraid even to imagine it. 

But in this situation, having once been parted from her own birth family, Dorna understood the girl fully and felt how Arya must have been missing the love and support of her mother and siblings. 


	26. Chapter 26

Hardly a week had passed since the news of Bran and Rickon’s rescue had arrived, and Arya felt it was more like several months. Nobody but Dorna had particularly rejoiced about her brothers – for the rest of the Lannisters, this news mostly meant that the Lady of Casterly Rock wouldn’t attempt to rebel and lead an army to the Neck anymore.

Every day was now so eventful for Arya that she barely managed it; she had to write the joyful letter to her brothers in bed, trying to keep her eyes open – it took her several evenings.

At least, she consoled herself, she was mostly busy with really useful things. Apart from the audiences (another one had taken place), Genna decided to partly trust her with supervision of the harvest – there were still the late varieties of apples, turnips, pumpkins, oats ripening out there, and all that had to be gathered in time and distributed across the Westerlands, naturally, with a large part of it getting sent to the North, to the troops.

Arya would have gladly watched over the harvesting personally, but Genna wouldn't allow it – she sent minor landed knights and their servants to the villages and fields. Arya's job was to count and check whatever was ultimately delivered to the Rock – it was essential to see that the knights wouldn't pocket more than they should and that the smallfolk would have something left for them. Arya was happy that, unlike Sansa, at least she hadn't any problems with numbers.

She was much more irritated with getting ready for attending the Lannisport wedding. This time Genna wouldn't accept any careful suggestions about riding attires: a dress, and only a dress! So every day Arya had to try on the local tailors' newest creation for at least an hour and a half (it was red-and-silver – she adamantly refused gold embroidery), and she also had to watch the preparation of the present: a tapestry depicting Lannisport and Fair Isle. In Arya's opinion, the gold and silver city with lots of unnaturally high towers didn't resemble the real-life Lannisport very much (she couldn't judge anything about Fair Isle, which looked like a tropical garden from a book on the Summer Islands), but both Genna and Dorna assured her that the tapestry was lovely and that both the groom and the bride would like it.

With the maester – finally! – they were over with the noble families and geography of Westeros, and Creylen couldn't help but move to more interesting things. Either because he didn't like her or because he simply was a significantly bad teacher, it seemed that he went beside himself to present even the exciting topics in the most boring way possible. Now they were busy with medicinal herbs – lesson after lesson, Arya learned by heart a book by Archmaester Ebrose,  _On Herbs and Roots Salutiferous and Venenous._ Against all odds, the study went on more cheerfully than with the houses and bannermen – Arya was trying harder and the book's language was actually rather easy.

Between accounting for the harvest, trying on the dress, and the lessons, Arya was barely able to get to the training yard. Genna wasn't too delighted that her good-sister was distracted from important matters by such unladylike exercises, but this time the maester suddenly came to Arya's help. He claimed that stretching muscles out made brains think faster, because, he said, thoughts move with the same speed as blood in the vessels, and after physical exercise blood begins to pump quicker. 

"And fencing is more useful than dancing right now, admit it," said Arya when she learned about it.

Genna couldn't argue with that.

A respite from all this hustle came with the arrival of another raven. Dorna, who had been keeping watch with the maester on the tower, came running to the Velvet Room, glowing with happiness – it was from Kevan. The army had reached Winterfell at last.

Arya's visit to the tailors was cancelled immediately, along with the twins' impending lesson – Dorna insisted she'd read the letter (the lines that were intended for the others' ears, that is) in the presence of the whole family.

When she wished, she could organize people as well as Genna. Before Arya could blink, she found herself sitting on the carpet in Dorna's room with Janei on her knee. The twins were by her side, Genna and Dorna occupied the armchairs. Emmon, Melesa, Ty and Walder were huddled at the doors.

For about fifteen minutes everyone waited for Dorna to read the first and deeply personal part of the letter. Just like the last time when Arya brought her Kevan's note from Harrenhal, she was constantly blushing, smiling, and sometimes giggling and pressing the paper to her heart.

Finally, when Arya started to feel this silent reading would never end, Dorna coughed and said:

"Well! And now he writes to you! Boys, listen up!"

The twins grew attentive and drew closer to their mother as she started to read aloud:

_Willem, Martyn, how are you doing, have you adjusted to your life at home after your first campaign? Even though you're now safe in a castle, don't forget your training – you must stay fit. When I come back, I'll bring you a new sword and bow – seasoned in the battles with the Others, so to say. I'm so proud of you, my dearest sons – Jaime told me how you fought in the Whispering Wood side by side with the grown men. Such a pity you aren't here with me – but, well, this way you are responsible for our castle's garrison._

_How is baby Janei? I'm always so sad she's growing up without me and doesn't know me at all... Tell her how I miss her, but don't frighten her with the Walkers, she's way too young for that. Does she still play with her wooden horse and her little plush Balerion?_

_Genna, dear, as usual, it's often that we sorely miss your voice of reason. Now that the battle spirit of the army is hanging by a thread, Tywin frequently gets very irritated._

If Kevan, with his doglike devotion, admitted that... Arya had remembered since Harrenhal that Tywin could sometimes be especially unbearable. Usually it happened when one of his commanders did something outrageously stupid, but it could also occur without any visible reason. On such days his acrimony reached a whole new level, and even if the servants, Arya included, performed their jobs ideally, there was no escape from his poisonous remarks and spite.

_Lady Arya..._

Arya gave a start. Dorna smiled at her and continued:

_Lady Arya, how are you, are you very lonely? I do hope you like it in our castle, even if you have moved there not precisely of your free will. Believe me, Tywin hasn't forgotten about you – he often thinks of your strong character and is certain you can deal with being Lady of the Rock. I don't doubt you either and hope you get on well with Genna, Dorna and the children. I was happy to hear that everything is all right with your brothers._

Did Tywin really think of her or did Kevan think it up to assure her of her husband's good feelings? Anyway, she was touched by such concern. It would have been the height of idiocy to expect a letter from Tywin personally, but Arya hadn't imagined his brother would write to her instead.

_If nothing happens, Lord Robb will send his letter at the same time as myself, but his will go through Riverrun – he doesn't have ravens who know the way to the Rock, so don't be hurt if you still haven't heard from him._

Dorna grew silent, and her cheeks reddened – obviously, the letter switched to strictly personal topics concerning her again. Genna rose:

"Thank you, Dorna. Tell Kevan we're grateful to him and we miss him. Come on," this was addressed to Arya and to Genna's own family, still huddled at the doorstep.

When Arya wanted to follow her, someone grabbed and shook her by the collar. As she turned, she saw Willem, red with rage.

"Father wrote more to you alone than he did to the two of us!" he hissed.

"Really?" Arya was genuinely surprised – she was far from counting the lines of the letter (or whatever way these twins used to measure its length). "Half of what he's written to me, if not more, is just polite words. He misses  _you_ truly, and that's clear."

"That's what I say," Martyn interrupted, but the first twin wasn't to be reassured.

"Damned Northerner! You've lured our father to your side, too!" he shouted. Arya didn't have the chance to ask what side he meant – Dorna, putting away the letter, held her son:

"Willem, come to your senses! What are you doing? I think we've talked about your terrible behavior with Lord Tywin's wife many times..."

Martyn scooped Janei up and left the room. Arya quietly slipped away after him. Even though the untiring Willem found a reason to be mad at her again, she felt herself much more cheerful and self-assured after Kevan's letter.

In the following days Martyn appeared alone at the table and in the yard. As it turned out, his brother's folly was the last straw even for the kind-hearted Dorna, and, like Arya shortly before him, he was locked in his own room.

"If you're waiting for him to apologize to me, you might as well brick him up in there – it will never happen," Arya told Dorna.

"I understand," the latter sighed sadly. "I want him at least to promise there will be no more outbursts of anger like this."

"Well, well," Arya shook her head doubtfully.

"Oh, please don't be upset! When Kevan comes back, he'll talk to him..."

"Dorna, you're doing it again! I don't love my own husband, how can I ask to be loved by people to whom I'm a complete stranger? I have Martyn for my exercises with swords, knives and arrows."

Dorna smacked her lips disapprovingly. Naturally, she would have loved the Rock to have one big loving family living inside it, and it was even worse for her that it was her own son who was disrupting the peace. Arya had an idea of inviting Jon when the war with the Walkers would be over – probably Dorna wouldn't even notice he was a bastard, she'd instantly proclaim him her favorite little brother on Arya's side. Jon would be shocked that some Lannisters are capable of human feelings and relationships!

As if in reply to her thought, a couple of days after they received Kevan's letter a thin flaxen-haired girl came to the Rock, a bit younger than Arya. Only Dorna came down to the gates to meet her – Arya joined her later as she noticed horsemen approaching the castle.

"That's Joy Hill, poor Gerion's daughter," Dorna explained. "She has been visiting Cornfield, my niece Joanna is her age and they're a bit friendly."

Arya immediately recalled that Gerion Lannister was Tywin's youngest brother who had long ago vanished without a trace in Essos; even Maester Luwin had told her about him. It was said that Gerion had been reckless, brave and jolly, so Arya had hoped to make friends with his daughter. However, if the kindly Kevan and quiet Dorna had somehow managed to give birth to the energetic Janei, here there was a complete opposite of the situation – Joy hadn't got a spark of mischief or liveliness. She was a nice, gentle girl, she was clearly touched that the wife of Lord Tywin had personally come to greet her, but she wasn't interesting in the least. After her arrival Arya barely saw her – Genna didn't let her even into the Velvet Room, and, apart from Dorna's room and the sept, Joy didn't basically go anywhere, except that she occasionally went to the tailors and helped them with the tapestry.

In fact, Arya had other things to worry about. On the day after Joy's coming she suddenly fell sick.

At first she only felt slightly dizzy and attributed it to running all the way up from the Lion's Mouth to the training yard the day before – considering how high the Rock was, such journeys always took their toll on her state of health. But she felt nauseous in the night, and in the morning she couldn't swallow a bite before she threw up.

Maester Creylen prepared a blackberry concoction for her. Except for that concoction, light broth and bread, Arya ate nothing for the rest of the day. Dorna and Maggy fussed over her, ordering her to lie down and shaking up her pillows. The nausea, though, didn't go away.

She didn't get better in the following day or the day after. A raven came from Riverrun with letters from Mother, Robb and Sansa, but Arya felt so weak she couldn't force herself to read them or even to listen to Dorna or one of the servants reading them.

On the fourth day (she got neither much better nor much worse) Genna asked bluntly:

"Arya, tell me straight and clear: are you pregnant?"

"No, I don't even have my moon blood yet," she didn't have enough force to be properly angry.

"Well, we haven't seen it, that's all. Perhaps something  _has_ happened between you and my brother? Or – and I don't know what will become of you if it's true – has something happened between you and someone else?"

The very thought of it had Arya retching again.

Genna didn't give up. She called for an elderly septa and ordered Arya to agree to have her innocence checked. The septa – she was called Erlicah – was thankfully very tactful and kindly, and Genna's idea didn't appeal to her, but she had to examine the girl.

"Well, what is it?" Genna demanded, when Arya, scarlet with shame, finally pulled the blanket to her chin with a sigh of relief. "Don't you lie!"

"You see, my lady, with some women one can't, ahem, determine their maidenhead by touch. As far as I understand, Lady Arya also likes riding... But I've checked her, and there are no signs of her expecting a child."

For some reason, Genna wasn't cheered up by the news. She frowned even more.

"Don't you trust the septa?" Arya whispered, fighting down another wave of nausea.

"No, I believe her well enough, but you haven't been getting better for several days. And if it isn't a pregnancy, there's the risk that it's the effect of a poison."

 


	27. Chapter 27

Arya froze. She had already suspected there was something odd going on – had it been a simple food poisoning, she would have been better by now, if not completely cured. But suspicion is one thing and hearing others saying it out loud is quite another.

"How's it possible?" she whispered. "The servants..."

"Every dish here is tasted by so many people that it would have been sheer madness," said Genna. "The culprits would have been found at once."

"Right..." Arya took a sip from the mug with the blackberry concoction that had been put at her bedside, and decided there was no point in shirking:

"The only one whom I can imagine as a poisoner is you."

"Exactly!" Genna nodded. "But, believe me, it's not me. Not because I feel so very warmly towards you. It's just that it would have brought only losses and no profit. You're a strong, healthy girl, any fool can realize you can't die a natural death. And if you die from poisoning at Casterly Rock, your brother will quarrel with mine all over again, and it will be hard to fix it."

Arya realized it too, and that was why it all looked so nonsensical to her.

On the other hand, when she spoke of a poisoner, she meant a clever one. But there are many people who lack Genna's foresight and only think of momentary gain...

"Willem?" she breathed out and leaned towards the tub that was standing on the floor, as a new wave of nausea came over her. 

"He's still being punished and doesn't leave his room. Anyway, I doubt it could have ever been him."

Arya chuckled doubtfully, and Genna noticed it:

"Oh, I'm not protecting my nephew. You know, I have a low opinion of men in general, no matter how closely we're related. It's just that poison, especially such a slow-acting one, wouldn't be his style. Had he given you a poison, he would have chosen something that would kill instantly."

"Maybe the servants after all, then?.."

"Only if bribed, and still I won't believe it easily. They know Tywin, they know me, and they fully realize the fate that awaits someone who tries to offend the Lannister name."

By the end of her speech, Arya wasn't listening anymore – her head felt heavy with weakness, and she fell back onto the bed.

In the same evening, Maester Creylen ordered a change of her pillows and mattress, and brought her newly bought candles and soap. Dorna, ever the self-sacrificing one, sat in the study for several hours, then another several hours in Arya's bedroom, to figure out whether the tiles from the Jade Sea contained poison. 

There was no poison in the tiles, but Arya's condition didn't improve. She still couldn't eat anything but concoctions, light broth and bread, and nausea twisted her insides all the time.

Somewhere around the sixth day of her illness, the twins visited her together – Willem was finally forced to ask forgiveness for his outrage and promise to behave himself in the future. Probably, the madly worried Dorna had exaggerated the danger, and Willem decided that asking forgiveness for one last time was a matter of honor. Or maybe he had just grown bored. Either way, he wasn't being friendlier towards Arya at all – his face showed nothing but irritation from being dragged along to visit her.

Feeling so weak, Arya could rarely keep up a conversation, but Genna and Maester Creylen came to her room to discuss the search for the poisoner and the poison, so that she wouldn't stay in the dark.

"The poison is still getting into her body somehow," the maester said one day. "But how? All my potions are tasted by a whole crowd of people. I nearly chew every smallest candle wisp. What else haven't we covered?"

"It's not even this matter that interests me most," said Genna. "You'll find the poison sooner or later. Or someone else will," she added meaningfully. "But I can't see why it's being done at all."

"I'm not sure I understand you here, my lady."

"Well, look here," Genna turned around to face both Arya and him. "If someone wants to murder Arya, why not give her a lethal dose in one go? Whoever it is, he must have a huge supply of poison – for ten days and counting – so why drag it on?"

"To make it look like a natural death?"

"Fiddlesticks. By now, it's clear as day that it's a poisoning, and a deliberate one too."

"They want to weaken Lady Arya without killing her?"

"She has too little actual power for that," said Genna. "Taking such risks for no big reason?"

"To clash the Lannisters and the Starks," Arya suggested, feeling a bit more lively.

"That would have been a complete idiocy. But even if we suppose it's true, it all comes to the point that killing you outright would have been easier. If they continue supplying poison, there is always the chance it will be discovered, you will stay alive, and the whole plot will just collapse."

Their discussion coming to nothing, they left, handing the care for Arya over to Letty. Closing her eyes and trying not to think of the nausea that seemed to be swimming somewhere down her throat, Arya attempted to sleep.

But she hadn't even had a chance for a small nap. She was quickly awakened by shouts and thumps coming from somewhere below.

"Letty, go and see what's the matter!" Arya asked.

The maid was only waiting for her permission – she bolted out so fast she nearly bumped into the door. She came back quickly, out of breath, with terror in her eyes but no signs of panic.

"There was a fire, milady!"

"Where?" Arya propped herself up on her elbows.

"On the underground floors. They're putting it out now, at least that's good."

"Are people dead?"

"No, not the people, though someone's got light burns... One of the cellars was burnt, milady. With the flour, the nuts, the salt..."

Arya gave a start. Now, before the winter and in wartime, flour and salt were really valued above gold. If an entire cellar had burnt down, it meant that the residents of Casterly Rock and its neighborhood lost several prosperous or at least tolerable months of winter, or maybe a year.

About an hour later Genna, Dorna, the twins and Emmon, covered in soot, came to her room.

"Well, how's it going?" Arya said impatiently.

"It's put out," Genna huffed. "Now, my lords and ladies. There is – now I know it for sure – a traitor at Casterly Rock. First Arya being poisoned, now this fire... There is simply no place for a fire to start by itself in that cellar. It was clearly set on fire by someone."

"But how do we find out who it was?" whispered Dorna, growing pale with fright.

"I asked the maester to count the ravens – all of them are in place. It means we have to count the servants, all of them. The traitor is set on insulting the Lannisters, and if he has the audacity to poison the Lady of Casterly Rock and start a fire in a cellar in the heart of the castle, he obviously has supporters outside, among our enemies. If we track his communication with them, we learn who he is and what his goals are."

Genna, Dorna, Melesa and Maggy had counted the servants and the soldiers of the garrison ten times or so. Several guards got it from them for missing the roll call, even for an innocent reason – they were out helping with the harvest.

The traitor's agent was never found, but at the same time, to everyone's astonishment, Arya started to get better. All of a sudden it turned out that the maester's concoctions began to work, the newly-eaten broth didn't shoot back up, the weakness lightened – and in two days the girl was completely fine.

"So the conspirators have fled!" Genna thought aloud. "Or have they run out of poison? But that would be some perfect nonsense."

Not allowing anyone to relax after the happy outcome, she insisted on Letty always tasting Arya's food, and at the same time ordered a specially formed party to bring the maid's family from Stoney Sept to Lannisport. It was easy to see what it meant, and Arya felt terribly awkward – she didn't want her servants' devotion to be extorted like that. But she also understood that there was always a risk of a new attempt on her life, especially since the culprit of the poisoning hadn't been found.

 

The current goings-on at Riverrun reminded Sansa of a game of happy families that she used to love when she was around seven or eight. Of course, when Uncle Brynden brought Bran and Rickon back, she was really beside herself with happiness, but since then...

She spent the whole day with handiwork, along with Mother and Roslin – the fighters at the Wall needed warm clothing. During meals she met Bran, Rickon and Uncle Brynden, they all primly sat at the table and asked each other, smiling, how things were going. Mother kissed them goodnight, just like she used to back in Winterfell, and in the mornings, she brushed Sansa's hair.

But even the family dinners were a pitiful replica of those that they had had in Winterfell. Father, always serious and thoughtful, wasn't coming back. Neither were Robb, Jon and Theon with their "grown" jokes and merry fights, Arya, always throwing honey or cream at Sansa – even though they were alive.

Sometimes Sansa wanted to howl, to burst into tears, to curl into a ball like a hedgehog, to let go of all the pent-up anguish, but she clenched her teeth and endured. She often even scolded herself – how could she, she had survived Joffrey's torments at court, and now she was with her family, there were no tortures, Lord Tyrion had scared Joffrey with the Walkers half to death and the king was quiet as a lamb...

But it wasn't even her anxiety for her elder brothers and Arya that weighed down her heart. After all, being parted with men at wartime was something unavoidable and natural, to say nothing of the parting of sisters after one of them getting married. 

Sansa had another worry troubling her. She thought that this idyll was calm before the storm.

She didn't talk to Mother of that. It could be nothing but imagination! Lady Catelyn had enough troubles as it was. But every morning Sansa woke up with a dreary thought: thunder would strike soon; what if it happened today?

However, she remembered her silence soon and chuckled to the feeling that she still tried to be the well-behaved girl of the earlier days. Because one morning Bran said it clearly:

"Mother, I want to go to Greywater."

"To Greywater? Why in the world?" she exclaimed. "They almost killed you on the Neck!"

"They were the pirates, not the crannogmen."

"Bran, but why do you need to go there? Do you realize what you're asking? You want me to send a party from the garrison with you, to such a dangerous place – and for what? I'm glad you've made friends with the young Reeds, but now it no time for polite visits."

"It's not about being polite," Bran argued. "It's my green dreams – I get confused in them without the Reeds' help."

As Lady Catelyn and Sansa exchanged uncomprehending looks, Maester Luwin came to them:

"Don't worry, he's not raving or going crazy. Something... very mysterious has happened. I haven't told anyone about it yet – I was worried they'd laugh at me."

And he recounted the story of the battle with the ironborn. How Victarion's men had surrounded the Blackfish, how Bran and Rickon had warged into their wolves and thrown off the pirates... Lady Catelyn raised an eyebrow in disbelief, and Sansa was doubtful too. In the heat of fighting one could have the strangest visions, after all.

"All right, my lady, I can suppose that the boys fainted from fright," Bran scoffed, but the maester went on. "But how could wolves – even direwolves – rush to help someone they've never seen before?"

"Did they actually rush to help?" Catelyn asked. "Maybe they were just attracted by the fight. They couldn't understand who was against whom... Maester Luwin, I respect you highly – and, Bran, I want to think you're telling the truth – but it's all too fantastic. Entering the direwolves' minds, the green dreams..."

"Mother, we're attacked by White Walkers, how much more fantastic can you get?" Bran exclaimed.

"Still, it doesn't mean we can believe everything. In any other time, I would have let you go anywhere you like, Bran, but right now we should be happy you and Rickon are even alive."

Sansa was thinking. Of course, Bran was fond of tales and legends, but he understood how serious their situation was and he wouldn't have begged to go to Greywater because of some idle tale. Maester Luwin, too – his story was extraordinary, but earlier it was him who used to say that magic was long gone, if it had ever existed.

"Maybe we should ask Uncle Brynden to confirm this thing about the wolves?" she asked.

"He was hardly paying attention then," the maester shook his head.

Suddenly, Sansa blurted out:

"Why not ask the Hound?"

Her mother looked at her in surprise:

"Clegane? What's he got to do with it?"

"He never lies," Sansa said firmly. "Even when..." she almost said "even when he's drunk, but she cut herself short on time, realizing it would bring unpleasant questions about how she knew. Her nightly meetings with Dontos (the former knight stopped coming after Baelish's death) were to remain a secret forever. And even less could she speak of how she had encountered the Hound one night in the corridors. "Even when... something unbelievable's going on."

At first Lady Catelyn wanted to just refuse. Indeed, it was the silliest idea ever – asking their recent enemy to confirm a completely wild tale! But at the same time, meeting Bran's anxious look, she felt in her heart the boy wasn't making it up. Besides, how would he have persuaded Maester Luwin to play along, as the latter was famous for his cool skepticism and dislike for any kind of pranks?

She didn't want to deal with Sandor Clegane, the one they called Joffrey's dog. But he had taken part in rescuing her sons – he offered to go himself, nobody had asked him...

"Fine," Catelyn gave up. "Let's go ask the Hound if he saw anything unusual during the battle. Bran, if you really have... these... um... abilities... well... we'll see," she finished vaguely. What could one say to a son who announced he could put his mind into a direwolf?


	28. Chapter 28

Sansa had feared that Sandor Clegane would turn out to be roaring drunk and completely useless, but they were in luck: they found him, fully sober, in the kennel of Riverrun. Her mother, initially skeptical about the whole idea of asking Clegane for the details of the battle at the Flint Cliffs, was quite softened by seeing him in the company of the best hounds of the Riverlands. The dogs were barking cheerfully, poking their nuzzles at his knees and wagging their tails with all their might.

"Ser Clegane..." Catelyn began. Sansa pulled her hand, but the Hound only winced but didn't correct her.

"Milady," he rose a bit and bowed his head. He was clearly confused, with no idea why he was suddenly visited by both Stark ladies and the Winterfell maester, and for a couple of moments Sansa had to suppress a smile – the confused Hound looked almost helpless, like a puppy in the rain. He even managed to address her mother politely, though usually you'd never hear titles from him.

"I would like to ask you something about the battle with Greyjoy's men," Catelyn hesitated – she was obviously uneasy to ask about something she believed to be so nonsensical. "It's most probably... er... just imagination, but... tell me, during the battle, have you noticed anything unusual about my sons' direwolves?"

"As in, when they suddenly leaped to defend the Blackfish?" asked Clegane.

"Yes," Catelyn answered weakly. "Do you remember anything else about it?"

"I wasn't looking closely, but it was strange that black wolf seemed to grab at the pirates with its paws, like a man." 

Catelyn gave a quiet gasp, and Sansa had to bite her lip so that her jaw wouldn't drop in amazement. If Sandor Clegane said that – he who never lied and who hadn't even any reason to lie in this case – then it was true. Her brothers... her own little brothers, whose red hair she ruffled, whom she scolded for their mischief and whom she told stories about knights... Bran and Rickon were able... it was terrifying to think... to transfer themselves into their direwolves' bodies.

Of course, Bran was right in a sense – after the army of the Walkers appearing in the far north, they should have expected other unnatural goings-on. But the Walkers were somewhere out there, beyond the Wall, outside the Seven Kingdoms, and the foreign lands were bound to hold strange things... But here was completely real magic in her own family. What if she, herself?.. Sansa quickly lifted her hands to her face, as if to make sure they weren't already turning into wolf paws.

"My lady!" Maester Luwin cried out at her side, catching Lady Catelyn by the arm. The woman was shaking violently. Sansa hurried to grasp her mother's other hand, surprised that she herself managed to hold her balance.

"I'm s-sorry... it's all right now," Catelyn swallowed and stood straight. "Thank you, Ser Clegane."

"Then what are we going to do, Mother?" asked Sansa.

Catelyn breathed out:

"At first... I think I'll sit down for a while... by the fountain, you know. I have to get a grip on myself..."

Sansa nodded with understanding: her mother clearly wanted to be alone. To be honest, she, too, would have liked to sit calmly for a while and at least get used to the new change in the world that had once been so familiar and easy.

Mother went on with Maester Luwin – he still supported her, afraid she would grow faint again. Sansa wanted to follow them and find herself some quiet corner in the garden to stay there and think, when she suddenly heard:

"Little bird..."

She gave a start and, turning around, couldn't help but think she had somehow missed that nickname. It was odd to hear it in the calm and cozy Riverrun and not in the keep after another of the King's tortures.

"Little bird, what is going on there?" asked the Hound. "What was it about the direwolves?"

She tried to explain as she could and waited for Clegane to laugh at her at any time.

But he was silent for a while and then frowned and said:

"That is..." then there came a series of words, the meaning of some of which Sansa could only guess. "They told us tales of wargs in the inns of the North, but..." he shot a suspicious glance at the dogs playing at his feet.

"I was frightened too that I'd accidentally turn into a wolf," said Sansa.

Suddenly she realized that she had never talked with the Hound like that, in a peaceful and almost friendly way – he was always either plainly hateful or drunk and hateful.

"But you haven't left for the Wall yet, I see?" she said, embarrassed for some reason, and bit her tongue too late, remembering he'd go mad with fear and rage when reminded of fire...

Today, though, he seemed to be in better spirits.

"We're waiting for new wagons with food, little bird. The trains are coming from the Rock in a week or two."

Sansa felt a surge of entirely unexpected pride: since the wagon trains came from the Rock, then it was Arya who was responsible for them, even if it was more of a formality at her age.

"Sansa!" her mother called her. "Are you still here?"

Lady Catelyn, looking much more composed and calm, walked to the hedge of the kennel. Sansa froze, fearing that her mother would notice how improper it was for a young highborn maid to stay alone with a man – not even a knight! – and in such an... unsuitable place. 

"Sansa, come, we've decided to gather and talk it over, I told Lord Tyrion too, since that discovery will affect everyone..." luckily, it seemed, Lady Catelyn didn't even think of such minor things. 

"My lord," Sansa bowed in Clegane's direction. She wasn't sure but she thought she saw him mouthing "Little bird" before turning back to the dogs.

 

"Deadly nightshade, or naughty man's cherries..." Arya was mumbling. Since she had been poisoned herself, she had felt rather unsettled by the descriptions of poisons in Archmaester Ebrose's writing. Every time she moved on to a new flower or vegetable, she thought over and over again: what if these roots, flower dust or leaves had been put into her food by the unknown traitors?

After she had healed, Maester Creylen, who had treated her sickness very carefully and seemed even to be genuinely worried, went back to being a complete bore. But Arya remembered how he got up at night to bring her a fresh cup of blackberry brew or wipe her sweating face, and she felt much less annoyed with him than before.

 _And I used to be mad at dear, kind if strict Septa Mordane for days, just because she didn't like my stitches,_ she thought bitterly.  _I can't even ask her forgiveness..._

"Maester, what is a chick pea?" she stumbled when reading the paragraph on antidotes for deadly nightshade.

"It's a small round sort of pea that's grown in Dorne and in the southwest of Essos, my lady. Archmaester Ebrose wrote his book for readers from every corner of the world," he said instructively.

"Where I can buy all this stuff?" she pointed at the list of antidotes.

"The chick peas..."

"Not just them, the rest as well."

"At the Rock we have about seventy-four hundredths of the medicines described in this book," said the maester in his usual monotone voice. If the question hadn't been so serious, Arya would have snickered.

"Can you take the task of buying the other twenty-six?" she asked straight.

"Some of these antidotes are very expensive, my lady," he said anxiously. "I don't know if spending the money would agree with the wishes of your lord husband..."

"My lord husband, I think, would wish for me to stay alive and well."

"My lady, I can give you the exact numbers," he said. "I think... I don't think such money in these times..."

"Well, it's not just myself," Arya interrupted him. "What if they – whoever they are – poison, say, all the water in our underground cisterns? Like the Valyrians did in that war, I forgot which?"

"The Second Turtle War, and it was the Rhoynar who did it, not the Valyrians," Maester Creylen corrected her automatically.

Arya's finger caught on something. It turned out to be a silvery thread that got loosened from the embroidery on her dress. As she pulled it out, she suddenly cried:

"But of course!"

"What's that, my lady?"

"The dresses!" Arya said excitedly. "Why didn't I see it before? I have wardrobes full of old dresses, sewn for Ladies of the Rock from a hundred years ago. For my lord husband, Lady Genna and for me it's nothing but useless rags, but I think many would buy them gladly."

"But won't your lord husband?.." the maester started again.

"These dresses, unlike jewels, can't even be put on display in the Golden Gallery. Take care, please, to order these southern medical herbs, peas and all the rest – I'll have the payment."

"As my lady wishes it," he bowed. "Now I would ask you to continue. We've left off at deadly nightshade."

Arya gave an exaggerated heavy sigh: 

"You won't be distracted."

When she learned of the upcoming sell of dresses, Genna, as usual, showed neither irritation nor joy, and Dorna only folded her hands and asked:

"But you will leave some of them for my Janei, won't you?" 

Arya laughed:

"Dorna, my dear, do you seriously believe I want to rob you blind? I can't sell all the clothes from our wardrobes, even if I'd wish it. Besides, while Janei's growing up, summer will come, we'll have new textiles, and the seamstresses will make her new dresses, better than the old ones."

Her good-sister beamed. Arya mentally noted that it would be nice to give her some pleasant surprise – it seemed she was doing nothing but handing down to Dorna everything she had thrown away: first she sent Joanna's furniture to her rooms, now she promised her old dresses... Poor Dorna, ever since she had been a hostage, must have been still thinking she was somehow indebted to her own family.

"Of course, the antidotes are so much more important than anything else," Dorna continued in the meantime – Arya had told her and Genna about her thoughts on the possibility of water poisoning. "I do want to be sure that the children are safe at the Rock at least!" by "children" Dorna meant every member of the family save for Tywin, Genna, Kevan and herself, but (mostly subconsciously) including Emmon. "What if that traitor's still around here?"

"Don't you worry, Dorna, actually any self-respecting secret assassin would only target me," Arya tried to lighten her mood. "Such a scarecrow acting as Lady of the Rock can only be suffered by Genna with her sarcasm, you because you love everyone, and Janei because I spoil her." 

"Willem insulted you again?" of course, Dorna took it all in earnest.

"No, everything's fine."

Willem really hadn't insulted her – as much as it was possible, he pretended she didn't exist. If they collided with each other in a corridor or in the training yard, he grimaced, annoyed, but there were no more quarrels about "whom Kevan wrote more".

Meanwhile, the Lannisport wedding was getting near. The red-and-silver dress that weighed (it seemed to Arya) no less than your average suit of armor was ready. The sparkling of the embroidery and silver brocade insets alone flickered before Arya's eyes whenever she stood in front of a mirror while trying it on.

On the day before her trip to Lannisport, she had to put  _On Herbs and Roots_ away: the maester made her repeat again, several times, the names, sigils, words and holdings of all the noble houses whose members were invited. The endless lower branches of the Lannisters in the end made Arya's tongue twist, and finally the maester said:

"Fine, I think this will do."

"Thank you," Arya said with feeling.

"But you do use this knowledge – at least at the audiences, my lady," he said, unperturbed. "Oh, a raven from the Citadel has come – the Seneschal will buy you the antidotes."

Now the thankfulness was genuine.

On the following morning everyone was overwrought since the very dawn. Only Arya and the twins were invited to Lannisport, but the noise and bustle in the Rock could make one think that everyone in the castle was moving somewhere. Worse, Arya couldn't take any part in that bustle – she obediently stood still in her room while Maggy and Letty were putting her jewels on her. A necklace, rings, a diadem, a brooch, all shining with silver and gold, each with heavy gemstones. Even everything she had to put on for the audiences paled before today's attire.

There was a minute of wicked triumph for her when she was reminded that it wasn't just her who had to dress up like that. When she was already standing on the staircase by Lann's statue, she heard an outraged yell:

"...and I hate that!"

Willem slid down on the railings and glared at her. Martyn came running after him:

"Oh, you are decked out all right, looks like an ant-hill of silver and gold," he chuckled. "Well, we too... As you can see, Willem doesn't like the lace on his suit, like, at all."

Willem nearly exploded with rage. Arya could understand him – if she was always annoyed with lace, she could imagine how it must have been for a boy. And she was again a witness – even if not the reason – of his humiliation.

"Boys, are you at it again?" Dorna called them desperately. "Go back up, you still need to comb your hair. And – Willem! – be on your best behavior, or you'll sit a month in your room! I'll ask Lady Arya about how you behaved!" 

Naturally, that did nothing to improve Willem's mood. As he shot another angry look at Arya and his brother and went upstairs, Martyn patted Arya's hand with an apologetic smile:

"Don't worry, I'll look after him. Everyone's on edge, and him, well..."

"It's nothing," Arya said for the umpteenth time.

The wedding of Lord Raynald and Lady Roselle, like her first audience before that, had completely exhausted her before its actual beginning – or even more so, before Arya even left the Rock for Lannisport.


	29. Chapter 29

This time there wasn’t any talk of riding – Arya and the twins went to Lannisport in a carriage, inevitably decorated in the Westerlands’ style: rosettes and leaves of gold on the outside, with a foot-tall Lannister lion standing on the roof, and red velvet on the inside. Servants and garrison soldiers went in front and behind it – some were riding, some were in simpler-looking wagons.

 _And the maester hasn’t got enough money to buy antidotes!_ Arya fumed silently. She had a strong suspicion now that, for all his outward strictness and ascetic lifestyle, her lord husband liked to flaunt his wealth no less than Cersei or Joffrey did. It couldn’t have been Genna buying all this luxury in secret from Tywin! Arya recalled that even her husband’s battle armor looked in no way modest…

The town was even more noisy and more richly decorated that a month ago. Ribbons of many colors swirled on the ground and got stuck in wheels all the time. Practically from every window there hung a banner with two sigils – a lion's head on a green field for the Lannisters of Lannisport and the three silver ships for the Farmans. 

The road to Lanniscourt took much longer in a carriage than earlier on horseback, mostly because of the crowded streets. Sometimes Arya thought she was having an odd dream and she'd never reach her destination – she hadn't had any time to get bored, though, because she constantly had to look out of the window and wave to the crowds with a smile. Sometimes they threw flowers to her, but often she had to hear shouts such as "When will the war end?!", "When will our sons come home?!" and "Why did you take all the oats we had?!" The latter was especially hard to bear – at least she had no part in starting the War of the Five Kings or the Walkers' attacks, but as she took care of dividing the harvest, she felt guilty, desperately trying to remember if she had been mistaken in her calculations and if it would have been possible to give more food to Lannisport.

When one of the protesters threw a rotten onion at her carriage (thanks to her lessons with Syrio and training fights with Martyn, Arya was swift enough to catch it and throw it down on the road), it was clear something had to be done. From Tywin's conversations with his bannermen at Harrenhal, Arya had learned about riots in King's Landing, and she didn't want to be torn to shreds.

She ordered to stop the carriage, opened the door and stepped out. It reminded her of the fight with the Brotherhood Without Banners – the difference being that while the Brotherhood didn't even pretend to bow to anyone, the people of Lannisport at least counted as her subjects.

Besides, back then she had been shocked and confused, and now she had got used to being Lady of the Rock.

"Dear people of the town!" she cried. The crowd grew quieter (the lances of the garrison soldiers and the city guards, pointed at the ones who yelled the loudest, also must have played their part). Arya went on, a bit calmer:

"I have suffered from the war, just like you. I was parted with my family. My lord husband and my elder brothers, just like your husbands and sons, have gone to the Wall, and I don't know if they'll return alive. But if we really want to help them all – them, who are now shielding our country from the Walkers – we've got to send them food. You can be sure: if you had more grain taken from you than usual, the extra part didn't go to be stored at the Rock. It was send in wagons to the North, where my brothers, my friends, my husband and everyone who has left us for war are freezing in our snows – believe me, our winters are especially harsh, and I fully understand what it's like!" she switched to a quiet, almost familiar tone. "Forgive me, I am still very young, I've only recently begun to rule your lands and I can make mistakes. If you don't have enough food, come to the Rock and tell me, and I'll give you bread from our own stores. Without supporting each other we won't last long; as we say in the North, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives!"

She bowed and climbed back inside. The crowd exploded with shouting:

"Hooray!"

"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives!"

"Why should the nobles stuff themselves at the wedding?!"

"You can't eat pretty words like oats!"

"Hail to the young Lady Lannister!"

"And she's dressed up all in gold, the peacock!"

"Good health and strength to you, milady!"

"All Lannisters are alike!"

"We are loyal to Casterly Rock!"

Arya gave a tired sigh and rubbed her temples.

"What was it for?" Willem scoffed. "It was the cheap style of the Tyrells!"

"Fine, next time I'll keep silent and we'll get droppings thrown in our faces in the elegant style of King Joffrey!" she said. 

"Arya, translated from Willem's language, it means it was simply a very big risk," Martyn interrupted. "Such speeches in front of an angry crowd should be given from a balcony and with a better guard than ours. What if you had blurted out something that would have enraged them even more? The idea was good enough, but next time you'll need to think it over."

Thankfully, they are almost at Lanniscourt by the time, and Arya didn't reply. The twins had spent all the months since Whispering Wood in the peaceful and friendly Riverrun, they clearly didn't understand the entire danger of maddened crowds, and she didn't want to argue with them right now.

The local Lannisters' palace was all lit with rainbow-colored rays – lanterns made of colored glass hung in the garden and stood on the windowsills. Arya, still thinking over the unrest among the townsfolk, cringed, figuring how much it all had cost. But it was just the beginning. When she came through the familiar living-room into the feast hall and saw the laden tables, she very nearly turned back and joined the protesters.

Even meals at the Rock were thirty times more modest! On the other hand, there were no particular celebrations there... But, for instance, Genna hadn't thrown a feast upon Arya's arrival, had she?

Whole buckets of snail soup, fried fishes wrapped in glistening bacon, quails and chickens, dripping with butter sauce, crimson pears in wine, gigantic sugar statues of fantastic creatures, long pies... Arya could barely manage to smile and praise the surroundings as Lady Ylinde had approached her. 

The hostess didn't notice – or preferred not to notice – that the cheerfulness of her noble guest wasn't very genuine.

"Let me introduce you, so to say, to the day's heroes," she smiled.

Raynald Lannister was rather nice-looking – his eyes were brown, surprisingly for a Lannister, and his aquiline nose and sharp chin must have come from someone on the mother's side too, but, unlike his parents, he didn't resemble a dried shrimp. Roselle Farman, flaxen-haired and graceful, wasn't madly in love with her husband-to-be, but, to Arya's hidden relief, didn't look unhappy either.

There still had to be the ceremony at the sept – everyone had about an hour to become properly hungry and to properly greet everyone else. Lords and knights flashed before Arya like puppets at a fair, and, despite herself, she silently thanked Maester Creylen – any time she heard a name, she instantly remembered the sigil, the name of the castle and the rest of the details about this or that noble House.

When the bride and groom finally went to the sept, Arya was more concerned about how heavy her dress and jewels felt, so she hardly looked at the most important moments. Next time, she decided, she'd arrive in time for the sept ceremony. After all, if Lady Lannister should indulge herself, she'd rather do it by skipping an utterly unnecessary hour than by riding around in gold carriages.

Besides, she couldn't help but grow very hungry.

There was some confusion at the table when Arya came to the wrong seat. She thought she was to sit next to the twins, but it turned out that her plate was prepared to the right from the newlyweds and the place she had chosen was intended for Jeyne Westerling.

Arya wanted to say sorry and move, but then she felt as if cold water washed over her. What if the mysterious poisoners' accomplices had tracked her here, too? The local Lannisters, she recalled, had behaved a bit oddly during their previous meeting... Could she vouch for their loyalty and honesty?

"I thank you, Lady Lannister," she nodded to Ylinde. "But I think Jeyne, as your companion, deserves the higher seat. After all, I am just a guest, and you are the ruling Lady Lannister around here."

Lady Ylinde and Lord Morvin exchanged surprised glances but said nothing. Arya admitted to herself that her logic had been not a little strange.

"Now they'll be very vexed at you, you can be sure!" Willem hissed triumphantly. "You refused your place of honor, and it's not a laughing matter!"

"Would your father be glad to know you were seated behind a Westerling?" Arya replied in a whisper. "As far as I know, he doesn't like them much."

Willem bit off a piece of bacon and began to chew.

"You see, Arya, even though Willem and I live at the Rock, we've actually got the same rank as the Lannisters here," Martyn, who was seated between them, was also angry. "While you're the Lady of the Rock, and if you cause a quarrel between the Rock and Lannisport... Maybe you Northerners are so simple that you don't care about who sits where, but we..." he cast a worried glance at the hosts.

Arya ate snail soup, not feeling the taste.

_I can't very well start explaining I'm afraid of being poisoned!.. But what if I have really offended them very much? What can I do? Talk it over with Genna? Or maybe just help myself with audacity – the Lady of the Rock can sit wherever she likes, and don't you hiss at me or I'll remind you of the Reynes of Castamere? No, not an option... I don't want them to think I'll hide behind Tywin from every serious problem._

Joyful music started to play.

" _The Flowers of Spring_!" Lady Roselle clapped. "My favorite!"

She opened the dance with Raynald. Martyn rose and gave his hand to Arya, who immediately put her hands behind her back and shook her head:

“No way! I dance like a cow! I’ve only studied at Winterfell, and badly at that!”

“Lady Lannister, allow me to ask you for a dance,” Martyn said loudly with a wide grin and then added in a whisper:

“If you refuse to dance as well, Morvin and Ylinde will know beyond a doubt that you’ve come here purely to taunt them. Better they laugh at you than believe you laughing at them.”

“How very encouraging, thank you so much,” Arya said back quietly, obediently stood up and smiled. 

Later she marveled how she had managed not to jump on her partner’s feet. It was especially hard with _The Flowers of Spring_ , because the music was quick-pacing and almost unknown to Arya. After that the musicians began to play _Seasons of My Love_ , and she sighed with relief: she knew this one well, and the melody was much slower. 

“Would you permit me, Lady Lannister?” Lord Morvin outstretched his hand. Martyn instantly bowed to Eleyna Westerling ( _While his father’s back is turned_ , Arya thought sarcastically), so she had to accept. But she had relaxed quite a bit after realizing that nobody really wanted her elegance and grace. Lord Morvin wasn’t a very skilled dancer either. It all came down to the ceremonies and rules of etiquette. 

She had to suffer through another dance (luckily, _Two Hearts That Beat as One_ were also quite drawn-out) with a red-haired Ser Robert Brax (she vaguely remembered that one of the pages at Casterly Rock belonged to House Brax), and then Martyn gave a sign she could sit down. 

“Can I ask you for the next dance, Lady Lannister?” he asked, once again taking care that everyone heard him. Arya took the hint – she was to think of an excuse without having to refuse somebody else:

“I am very flattered, my lord, but I fear I’m still very weak after my illness.”

Martyn didn’t argue, instead he instantly went to some girl – judging by the colors she wore, of House Bettley. 

Both the guests and the hosts were getting more joyful and more drunk, and the songs steadily grew bawdier. At last – Arya suspected that everyone had been on their toes, waiting for that – she heard the famous tune of _The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown_. 

“You take part in the bedding too – a gesture of politeness,” Martyn told her at once. However, while Arya honestly joined the crowd gathered around Raynald, she couldn’t manage to get close to the man himself – the quicker and bolder girls were swarming right over him. 

The noise was deafening. When the newlyweds had been finally brought to the bedroom, Arya, feeling her duty done and her head aching dreadfully, went to the table to drink some milk with honey, and only then it dawned on her that most of the noise was coming from the outside rather than from the staircase.

Before she could process what could be happening, the doors swung opened and Ser Wavelann, fully armored, ran inside, completely out of breath:

“My lords, my ladies! The town is under attack!”


	30. Chapter 30

Arya had had a similar feeling back at home, whenever she woke up after a long twisted dream as Mother, the septa or Sansa quickly pulled down her blanket. The illusion of an impregnable warm cocoon broke with a gust of cold air.

This time, too, it seemed that Ser Verlyn’s shout destroyed a curtain of sorts that Arya herself had constructed. The feast, the dancing, the dress, the jewels – she saw everything for what it was, not just some useless luxury but a cunning trap that distracted her from reality. Lannisport was under attack. Under attack. Ever since that fight with the Brotherhood Without Banners Arya had almost forgotten the word: even today, facing the crowds of Lannisport, she felt herself in charge.

“Who’s attacking?” she ran to the elderly knight, stumbling in these idiotic skirts.

"Several ships," he answered in a strangled voice.

"The flag?" Arya whispered, already foreseeing the answer. But it was even worse than she had thought.

"The leading ship has a red eye and a black crown..." said Ser Verlyn. Only now did she notice how pale he was.

At first Arya didn't realize what was the matter – no house had such a sigil. But then she recalled – no, not the maesters' lessons but her father's stories of the Greyjoy Rebellion. A red eye and two crows holding a black iron crown made a sigil chosen by Euron Greyjoy, the most dangerous and unpredictable one of the pirate dynasty.

The hosts and the guests, it seemed, hadn't yet processed what was happening. They looked at each other, confused, scratched their heads, and looked at Ser Verlyn in a way that showed they weren't sure he wasn't a figment of their imagination. It wasn't so surprising, since most of the cheering crowd were drunk as fiddlers. 

The twins, however, though they hadn't refused wine either during the evening, understood everything perfectly.

Arya took a shuddering breath. Suddenly she felt a horror she hadn't experienced since Father's beheading. 

"What's with the defense?" she wanted the question at least to sound firm, but her voice shook like jelly.

"Our commander Ser Claren Lannister has gathered everyone who's in the city – two hundred fifty guardsmen in total."

Two and a half hundred men. Against the fleet of Crow's Eye...

"G-gath..." Arya straigtened her shoulders and tried to pull herself together. "Gather the irregulars. The sick, the old, the women – rouse everyone who isn't bedridden and who can defend himself! You there!" she waved her hand to the guests. "Who can move and hold a weapon – go to Ser Verlyn! Ser Verlyn, do organize them! For me – someone, please give me pageboy's clothes or at least a narrower dress and bring me my sword from the carriage! Martyn, you stay here and help me, Willem, ride to the Rock and call for relief!" try as she might, hysteria slipped through her voice. Her arms and knees trembled. If it had been just her! If only she hadn't been the one responsible for the defense!

A sharp slap on the cheek brought her to her senses.

"Now, Arya, hold on, you won't get anywhere with panic!" Martyn said – the twins were already running to the door.

"Ser Brax, there are old stone cannonballs in the cellar – bring them here. Ylinde, order the maids to gather all the hay we've mowed. Who can shoot?" thankfully, Lord Morvin, completely sobered up, slowly took control into his own hands.

"I can!" Arya raised her hand at once. "Just wait a minute!"

Some serving girl threw her a pageboy's attire – apparently assembled right here and now and randomly: the shirt didn't match the waistcoat, the waistcoat didn't match the boots... Arya scooped all that in her arms and bolted into the shadow of the wooden staircase – there was no time to search for a hiding place, but it would have been too risky to change in the sight of everyone, especially considering how battle-crazed men reacted to women of any looks and age...

Managing to put the clothes on (they were mostly larger than her size), Arya ran from under the stairs. Indeed, barely a minute had passed – and the feast hall was already unrecognizable. The knights, still hardly standing on their feet, put together all the weapons they could find, down to meat knives. Lady Ylinde and the Westerling sisters were leading a group of ladies and young maids away – probably into some cellar with a large good lock. Old servants were hurriedly working on something – it seemed they wrapped hay around arrowheads and dipped them in oil.

"Arya, here!" Martyn threw her Needle; his own sword was held at the ready.

"You shan't join the battle, my lady," said Lord Morvin firmly as he saw it. "We can't have the first cabin boy cutting you in two. You better go to the cellars with the women."

"Not if I can help it!" Arya scoffed. "I won't be sitting, tail between my legs, while Crow's Eye is attacking my land! Ask my nephew – I can fight!"

Martyn, as usual, held the middle ground:

"You really shouldn't go with the sword-fighters, you have only fought grownups when training. You might defeat the cabin boy, but I doubt you'll manage a grown seaman, even one of them. But, Lord Morvin, Arya can go to the archers – she is excellent with shooting. And I know her – even if you lock her up in these cellars of yours, she'll run away. I'd rather she stayed with Ser Claren's men from the start – at least he'll watch over her."

"Then find a shield for her," Morvin ordered. "Well, my lady, Lord Tywin should know I tried to dissuade you."

"I promise to tell him that," Arya smiled. Now that it was time to fight and the command was in the hands of more skilled men, she felt much calmer and more sure of herself. So, it was Euron Greyjoy – and what of that? The Greyjoys looked menacing, but somehow they always lost! Only recently Uncle Brynden had smashed the host of Victarion!

A tall golden-haired man with a bushy moustache, wearing a guard's cloak embroidered with gold, came quickly into the hall.

"Any archers?" he asked brusquely.

"Yes, Ser Claren," Lord Morvin nodded. "Everyone who can shoot – line up by twos!"

Arya and Martyn stood in front of everyone immediately. For a moment Martyn squeezed her hand encouragingly:

"Aren't you frightened? Maybe the cellars would be better?"

" _You_ can go there if you like. Fear cuts deeper than swords," Arya said proudly.

"Another of your Northern proverbs?"

"No, this one's a saying of Syrio Forel."

The servants were walking along their line; every archer received a bow, a quiver with arrows and a flint. Lord Morvin personally gave Arya an enormous dusty shield.

"Ow!" her hand was pulled down sharply. "Was it made by giants? Or has Gregor Clegane forgotten it here?"

"No, my lady, that's mine, for tourneys," Lord Morvin chuckled.

"A tourney trinket for battle? You jest!"

"Arya, it's the right size to cover you," said Martyn before Morvin could reply. "If you get shot, any battle with Euron will be a child's play compared to what my lord uncle and your brother will do to us. Let me carry it, if it's heavy for you."

"Foolish gallantry!"

"It's not gallantry, it's a choice for you: shooting from behind the shield or..." he paused, "the cellars!"

Now Arya noticed that Ser Claren and Ser Verlyn were looking increasingly annoyed: if Martyn and her hadn't been Lannisters of Casterly Rock, they would have long ago ordered them to shut up and stop faffing around.

"Fine, carry that thing," she gave up.

"Archers, follow me!" said Ser Claren (Arya could have sworn he sighed with relief). Ser Verlyn, in the meantime, was assembling the swordsmen.

As they ran through the town, Arya hardly noticed anything around her – the cries of frightened people seemed to come from far away. The red-granite walls of Lannisport weren't too high – lower than the Winterfell ones – but for her it looked like an eternity had passed before they finally climbed the whole way.

Chaos reigned at the pier. About a dozen ships, most of them with a golden kraken on their sails, tried to push their way to the shore – at a distance they seemed to literally cut through the mass of boats and smaller vessels. The seamen of Lannisport were also alert – the air was black with flying arrows between their ships and the Greyjoy flotilla.

"Wait!" Arya grasped the watch commander's hand. "If we're going to use burning arrows, we'll burn down our ships as well! Look what a mess there is!"

"That's why, my lady, we'll wait for now," said Ser Claren. "If they get closer, we'll have to save the town, and damn the ships."

For a while, neither side seemed to have a major advantage. Lannisport wasn't prepared for the attack, but Arya remembered everything she had heard about the stupidity and primitive fighting methods of the ironborn. Their ships, too, were much smaller and older than the new and shining large ships of the Lannister fleet...

And then a scarlet shadow appeared from the darkness. Like a blade, a long, narrow galley with a single gigantic sail silently went into the midst of the battle.

"The  _Silence_..." Arya whispered.

What followed was terrifying and captivating at the same time. As the galley, still quiet, approached, panic spread on the Lannister ships – it could be seen from afar – even though apparently nothing extraordinary had happened yet. But the ironborn seemed to be different men – the small ships, crowding in disarray, lined up and attacked in enviable coordination.

"That Crow's Eye!.. He doesn't even do anything, it's just that everyone's afraid of his red galley!" Arya cried indignantly.

"No, it's not exactly that," Ser Claren corrected her. "He doesn't do anything  _needlessly_. And we have reasons to be afraid, my lady. I remember the last time he attacked Lannisport..."

Catapults fired from the  _Silence_. Arya bit her lip, watching helplessly as the balls fell on the decks of the ships under the red-and-gold flag. Even she could hear the screams of pain and the crushing of wood.

Only half an hour later she had to admit that the sailors of Lannisport – mostly tradesmen, who could fight off nothing worse than the reed boats of blundering southern pirates – couldn't do anything with the Greyjoy fleet. People ran away by dozens from the ships, chased by arrows, or cannonballs, or some weird packets, filled with something like wildfire that only produced a lot of smoke, however, and didn't burn... The krakens advanced in triumph.

"Archers, ready!" Ser Claren yelled.

Arya took the arrow from the quiver and the flint. A single spark got the hay and tow, wrapped around the head, burning bright.

"Fire!"

The arrows shot towards the sea, like sparkles of a large bonfire. The ironborn were still very far, so the fire of a large part of the arrows simply went out on the way, and another part fell into the sea. But somewhere on the pirate ships' decks, Arya saw small islands of flames flaring up, and her mood rose at once.

"Ready... fire!" Ser Claren shouted and shouted, and each time a new fountain of sparks cut through the gray dusk.

But the arrows only slightly bothered the pirates, yet couldn't fully stop them. When they were close enough to the land, the ironborn didn't even particularly try to put out the fires, simply jumping into the sea and reaching the shore by swimming. They were met by Ser Verlyn's swordsmen, but the  _Silence_ (which, somehow, wasn't torched even by the arrows that reached their goal) rained cannonballs and stones on the latter.

The first pirate squads reached the town walls. Out of the corner of her eye, Arya saw several women – she recognized maidservants from Lanniscourt in some of them – carrying huge smoking pots upstairs.

 _Oil is so expensive – how shall we buy new supplies?.._ she thought for a moment, when suddenly it was revealed it wasn't oil at all.

As soon as the ironborn began to climb the walls, the women turned the first pot over.

The pirates fell down, shrieking, covered from head to foot in the delicious, carefully brewed snail soup. When Arya realized what it was, she couldn't help but burst out laughing, and Ser Claren had to snap at her quite unceremoniously.

Now that the attackers were so close, more arrows hit the intended goal – but new problems came up, too. Arrows, and spears, and the snail soup – all of it could kill one of their own just as well as their enemies. Next to Arya, Martyn swore loudly – his arrow hit Ser Verlyn, fighting at the gates, on the shoulder.

Another trouble was that many of the ironborn were armored.

"Why are they even wearing all that metal?" Arya cried, when another of her arrows, the fire having died down in the air, bounced away from somebody's helm without harming its owner in the slightest. "They can drown in it!"

"They think they can't. As they say it, what is dead can never die," Martyn grumbled. His arrow went completely aside, away from the fighting and towards some fishing boats.

"You better not get distracted! The first row of Jaime's archers indeed!"

Meanwhile, the  _Silence_ approached the shore – slowly, even, in a way, majestically.


	31. Chapter 31

Crow’s Eye’s men acted like clockwork. After they disembarked their ships, they positioned their catapults on the shore in mere minutes, as if they had been at a tourney or even a parade.

“Down!” cried Ser Claren. 

Arya leaned down, noticing these odd smoking packets flying in their direction. 

But she had completely forgotten about Lord Morvin’s terribly heavy shield. As she leaned, the shield too leaned ahead and pulled her along with it. The girl lost her balance and, with a jolt of terror, realized her feet were now on the very edge of the wall. 

She might have had kept herself from falling, but right then a smoke-ball crashed down at the very place where she had just stood. Thick grey smoke with a heady acerb smell filled Arya’s eyes, her nose, her mouth… She broke into a cough, lost her footing… and slipped along with the shield. 

More by reflex than consciously, she pulled her hand out of the shield’s straps. The earth got closer and closer, and Arya bitterly thought she hadn’t even prepared the town’s defenses properly, dancing at the wedding instead. 

Had the wind been blowing towards the sea, Tywin Lannister would have certainly been widowed again that night. But there was a gale coming from the west – it had helped the Greyjoys to maneuver into the port, but thanks to the same wind Arya was close enough to the wall while falling to be able to grasp a spoke of a ladder about ten feet away from the ground.

She held on to the wet, jagged piece of wood with four fingers of her left hand and caught her breath. Judging by the smell and by the fact that the wood was also hot, it had been recently hit by the snail soup – that’s why there were no ironborn around, too. Still shaking, Arya managed to pull herself up and grip the spoke with her free hand. 

Then she slowly began her way down. The ladder was awfully slippery, and even though a fall from this height wouldn’t have been deadly by itself, Arya wouldn’t have survived long in the midst of a battle with, say, a broken leg. 

She jumped when there were around two spokes left, and looked up and waved furiously, in an effort to let Ser Claren, Martyn and the rest of the archers know that she was alive. It was difficult to see anything in the cloud of smoke, but when it had dissipated, Arya gasped. Martyn’s clothes, embroidered with gold and silver, could be seen at a great distance… could have been seen, had he been up there.

Had Martyn fallen down as well? He wasn’t around here… or had he fallen on the other side? Or was he plainly shot? Or maybe it wasn’t anything – they could have run out of flint, and Ser Claren might have sent him for the supplies…

Anyway, it wasn’t the time to worry or grieve. Drawing Needle, Arya lunged forward. 

“Casterly Rock! Winterfell!” she screamed, realizing people would sooner hear her voice than notice her in her dirty pageboy’s clothes. 

“Lady Lannister!” several guards and townsmen, recognizing either her voice or her face, shouted back. 

“Lady Lannister lives!” voices echoed around. 

Arya hadn’t even reached the closest pirate troops when somebody gripped her shoulder. 

“Martyn!” she exclaimed, turning around. “You’re alive too!”

“I ran downstairs from the wall as soon as you fell! We needed at least to take the body away!”

“I’m very touched. Why are we standing here?”

“Go to Lanniscourt,” said Martyn. 

“Wha-at?”

“Don’t be a fool! You’ve just nearly died – how did you survive, by the way?”

“I grasped the ladder.”

“Well, go to the cellar of Lanniscourt – right now! We can’t risk you!”

“No chance of the cellar! I have a sword too, you know! What sort of a lady will I be if I don’t defend my lands?”

“No,” Martyn snapped. “To the cellar, at once. Listen, if it had only been you – why, go to the Walkers for all I care, if you don’t have any brains! But do you know what my dear uncle will do to me if he finds out I let you fight on the front line? Enough! Let’s go! I’ll return here afterwards.”

At that moment, the ironborn broke through the line of Lannisport guards surrounding them. Some roaring hulk attacked Arya; he raised his dagger for a strike, and then instantly grew silent, his eyes widening in shock, and fell down – he clearly hadn’t expected such a quick reaction from a small page. 

Arya pulled Needle out of his chest, but others were already charging upon her. 

“Casterly Rock!” Martyn yelled behind her back, spinning his sword. With all the noise of the battle, that made Arya temporarily deaf. 

“You island weaklings can only fight green peasant boys like this one!” Martyn went on. “You don’t have the guts for a Lannister of the Rock, a son of Kevan himself!”

Arya was tossed aside – her recent opponents lunged in Martyn’s direction. Even the brains of the ironborn were probably able to figure out there was a potential valuable hostage standing right in front of them. 

But Arya wasn’t going to run to Lanniscourt – which was possibly what Martyn was hoping for. Perhaps the Lannisters could leave their relatives in danger, but she was born a Stark, and for her it was unimaginable. Since all the ironborn were distracted fighting off Martyn, she furiously attacked them from the back. But by that time guards came to Martyn’s aid too, and Arya felt herself pushed somewhere away once more. 

The hardest was not to stick the sword into a friend. Approximately the enemy came from the sea and the friends were behind her, but as the outnumbered men of Lannisport began to retreat and the pirates, in their turn, were cutting their way towards the walls, even that difference got blurred. 

Now Arya wasn’t randomly waving her sword around anymore, she only blocked the attackers’ thrusts: with her shabby, but obviously Lannisport-fashioned suit only a blind man could confuse her with an ironborn. On the other hand, the enraged soldiers could have been simply cutting down everyone in their way without actually looking, especially since Arya was so short…

Belatedly she thought that maybe Martyn was right: after her fall, she should have hidden if not in the cellars, then at least within the town walls. In this pile she cared about nothing beyond not being squashed. One thing, though, was clear to her even now: the city’s defendants were slowly but steadily losing the battle. 

_If only, if only Genna sent us relief…_

But the possibility of her doing so was dreadfully thin. Of course, Arya was Lord Tywin’s wife and all that, but if the garrison of the Rock went to help her, the Rock itself, which, by the way, also stood on the shore, would be left defenseless. What if Greyjoy had other ships and would send them there once the Lannisters’ main forces would be drawn to Lannisport?

“The lions must be doing really bad if they let out such cubs!” someone laughed behind her back and grabbed her, probably intending just to throw her away. Arya had barely caught a glimpse of the pirate’s long-nosed face when he felt her hips (she grimaced in disgust) and exclaimed in surprise:

“Oho! It’s not a boy! That weird thing shouldn’t go to waste!”

Arya kicked and screamed as much as she could, but this fighter was a skilled one. He held her in a way that prevented her from grabbing her sword, while her punches and kicks hit nothing but air. 

“Arya!..” she heard Martyn’s voice. Had he seen her getting captured or was he simply searching for her?

“Martyn!” she yelled back with all her might. Her captor, meanwhile, carried her to the _Silence_ , anchored by the shore, and ran up on board. Two cabin boys – both pale and thin and speaking to each other in coughs and grunts – quickly came to their side and tightly bound her hands and feet. 

Arya let out another piercing yell, but they didn’t even raise an eyebrow. The pirate who had taken her prisoner pushed her down onto the deck and hurried back to the ladder, drawing his sword again on his way. 

There were already several captives on the deck, among whom Arya spotted, her heart sinking, that girl in House Bettley colors with whom Martyn had danced only four hours previously. The girl was weeping and obviously hadn’t recognized Lady Lannister in a boy’s clothing and covered in blood and dirt from head to toe.

 _Was I not the only one to refuse shelter in the cellar? Or… or have they reached Lanniscourt?_ If the ironborn had gotten to the local Lannisters’ palace, away from the sea and in the center of the town, Lannisport was as good as lost… Which would mean that the next strike would be at the Rock, and she didn’t know whether the castle would survive it – of course, it would withstand a one-time attack; a siege, on the other hand…

Now, however, it seemed there was no imminent danger of that. Arya couldn’t properly see what was happening – she had to turn her head, and the mess looked like a mess at a distance anyway – but it seemed that Crow’s Eye wasn’t so lucky after all. She could hear, and quite frequently, too, the lively cries of “Casterly Rock!”

Had Genna sent soldiers after all? Or had the townspeople somehow cheered up?

Arya had stopped screaming – first, nobody would have heard her from the ship in that noise anyway, second, her throat was already hurting, third, she had heard that Euron Greyjoy had a custom of cutting out his prisoners’ tongues. Of course, there was no use trying to predict a madman’s doings, but Arya was pretty certain that the ones who’d annoy him with cries would be the first to go mute. 

She breathed in deep and tried to calmly analyze her situation. Sitting next to the sobbing Bettley girl, it was hard to focus, but Arya firmly told herself to hold on. She couldn’t cry. There was no time. Or else she wouldn’t survive for sure. 

So, she was held captive once more, and once more by crazed men who didn’t shy away from the most horrible tortures. And, unlike the Mountain, Euron Greyjoy doesn’t answer to anyone. The Lannisters don’t have a military fleet – it had been burned down by the same Euron during the previous Rebellion – and she had no idea when and how anybody would try to rescue her. The pirates weren’t the same as a mysterious poisoner within the walls of the Rock, no one could accuse the Lannisters of being responsible for their attack, so Robb couldn’t blame Tywin for anything. Robb himself was approaching the Wall, and he had no time for his sister – if he hadn’t been in a hurry to ransom her and Sansa during the War of the Five Kings, what was there to say now, in a war that was about saving the entire land and all the people?

Uncle Brynden? He had defeated Victarion… He had defeated him all right, but a small squad and on land. Blackfish, as far as she could remember, hadn’t even been on naval campaigns. Anyway, a good war fleet could only be found in King’s Landing or the Reach. Arya had no friends in either place. 

It seemed that she could only rely on herself. She decided not to reveal her true name. Naturally, if she had found herself imprisoned by someone else with a more sound mind, she would have said at once she was Robb Stark’s sister and Tywin Lannister’s wife. But here? At best Crow’s Eye would decide to hold her for ransom, and she’d be kept in some impeccably-guarded prison, while the ransom wouldn’t arrive in the next few years. At worst… at worst, on the contrary, he’d only torture her more viciously. 

No, it was better to pose as a commoner again. For sure, they wouldn’t be careful with her as if with a valuable hostage, but they also wouldn’t be too bothered if… when she managed to run away. 

Sometimes pirates dragged new prisoners on board – mostly women. The Bettley girl had stopped crying and was now only quietly sniffing. Arya edged towards her and, as well as was possible with tied hands, patted her back. 

“Have I seen you somewhere?” the girl asked as she turned to her, her voice husky from crying. 

“No, m’lady, you’re mistaken,” said Arya. “Oh, don’t you worry, you are highborn, they’ll have to treat you well!”

_If only I could be truly sure of that._

The sound of fighting was getting quieter. The crew began to return to the ship. Oh, why was Euron Greyjoy that crazy? On any other ship, Arya would have at least learned of the outcome from the men’s talk!

While now she could only wait and occasionally stroke Lady Bettley’s head and back encouragingly.


	32. Chapter 32

At one moment it became obvious that the pirates were retreating, if with the prisoners and spoils. Arya saw red-and-gold shields practically at the side of the  _Silence_  – if her legs hadn't been bound, she could probably have jumped from the deck right to the Lannister men. The ironborn weren't simply coming back to the ships anymore, they were running in a crowd. Puffs of smoke were rising from a ship nearby.

The defenders rained arrows, spears and stones on the  _Silence_ , which had raised her sails and was slowly drifting away from the shore.

Arya heard an authoritative voice:

"Bind the highborns to the stern!" 

She couldn't see the one who spoke – and it could only have been Crow's Eye himself – and she had prepared herself for getting killed for the sake of saving Lannisport when she recalled she was dressed as a poor page and had decided not to reveal herself. 

Her neighbor, though, wasn't so lucky. The same pale cabin boys dragged her by elbows to the stern. Besides her, they took two knights and a squire. As they pulled the helms from the knights, Arya recognized Raynald Lannister in one of them – she quickly turned away, desperately hoping he hadn't noticed her.

The shooting of arrows stopped at once – of course, nobody wanted to hit Lord Morvin's son.

"That's excellent, it'll calm them down a little," Euron Greyjoy walked along the deck and stopped in front of the other captives. Arya held her breath – she had heard too much about that man.

Judging by his looks, she understood his reputation wasn't idle boasting. He was pale as snow, even though he had reputedly had long voyages in the southern seas, and his lips were somehow completely blue. If his only eye – the second was hidden by a black patch – hadn't burned with battle fervor and ferocity, Arya would have taken him for a wight – they were described just like that in the letters from the North.

Euron looked at the captives carefully. 

"You! Who are you?" he pointed his finger at one of them, a short sturdy young man. 

"T-tyller Hill, m-milord,"  the latter stammered. "I didn't want to fight, I swear! I'm ready to serve you, just please don't kill me!" a fair-haired bearded man sitting next to him gave him a rough shove, but Crow's Eye smiled:

"As you wish. You," he called to two of his seamen, "walk this lad to a cabin and give him some shade of the evening. You may even untie him."

Tyller Hill mumbled some incoherent words of thanks, and Arya felt yet more uneasy. Something told her that the hapless turncloak's fate would be similar to that of poor Lommy from Yoren's group... at best.

"Well, you won't hear any such shit from me!" the bearded man roared, not waiting for Euron to say anything to him. "I've served the Lannisters, I serve and I will serve them! And I won't let you fuckers into our town! Even should you cut me to pieces!" 

"An interesting idea!" Crow's Eye said with delight. The man was a bit confused at the friendly manner but continued just as fiercely:

"And you won't see a crown on your head, you earthworm!"

Arya swallowed, not knowing whether to be appalled at his stupidity or to admire his courage. Was he maybe deliberately provoking Euron to finish him off, preferring a quick end to a long captivity?

"Now, why are you so mad at me?" Euron said, as if he had been a maester surrounded by misbehaving pupils. "Do you honestly prefer that Old Lion of yours?"

"Lord Tywin isn't the best of men, but he's a man, not a monster like you!" the bearded man shouted. Crow's Eye yawned:

"All right, this loud-mouth is getting on my nerves," he raised his hand and clicked his fingers, and immediately several pirates lunged at the prisoner.

For the first time since Harrenhal, Arya shut her eyes tight, but she couldn't shut her ears. Nauseating cutting sounds along with terrible screams of pain nearly broke her eardrums, but the worst thing was hearing the bearded man's last cry:

"Casterly Rock!"

"And who's this shy maid?" Euron's voice sounded out. Arya jerked and opened her eyes. The pirate was towering right above her. "But... wait, it  _is_ a maid!" to be fully sure, he leaned and groped her barely visible hip. Almost choking with disgust and humiliation, Arya bit her lip to stop herself from spitting in his face.

"What's your name, then, darling?" he cooed.

"Meg, m'lord," she croaked the first name that came to her head, trying to mimic the chirruping speech of the servants at the Rock.

"What's with this dressing-up?"

"I wanted to defend the town."

Crow's Eye laughed heartily:

"What a wench! There is no end to surprises in this life! Haven't you heard, sweetheart, about what happened to brave Danny Flint?"

Arya' heart froze with horror. She had heard, and many times, too...

"No, m'lord," she squeaked. "She doesn't live in our village."

"She doesn't live anywhere anymore," Euron said. "Well, fine, I suppose we'll keep you for now. You don't often see such a gimmick!" he clicked his fingers again. Arya shut her eyes again and curled up, waiting to be cut to pieces too, but instead they gripped her arms and dragged her somewhere. On the deck, then down, then to the side somewhere. As she felt they threw her on the floor and heard the door shutting and the click of a lock, Arya opened her eyes very carefully.

She was thrown into a tiny closet, which was completely empty, even without any windows. But it didn't look like Euron had chosen her as a bedmate for the following hours, so she quietly sighed with relief.

Only now she began to process everything that had happened. Less than a day earlier she had been calmly dressing for the wedding at the Rock! It was difficult to believe it now.

What was happening there? Would anyone at the Rock be genuinely worried for her, or would everybody be secretly happy to be rid of her? Well, Dorna would be anxious – she was anxious about everyone. Janei would probably cry a bit, but not for long – at her age everything got forgotten quickly. Willem, for one, definitely wouldn't hide his glee – Arya had been a thorn in his side. What about Martyn? Had he survived at all? She had to admit he had fought bravely. No, he must have survived! He and his brother had been through Whispering Wood, it wasn't easy to kill them! Genna... she couldn't be sure about her. Most likely, she would be appalled by the political damage from what had happened.

What would become of Mother, Jon, Robb, Sansa, the little boys when they learned she was held captive by Crow's Eye? There was a lump in her throat as she thought of that. Oh, poor, poor, dear Mother, it would kill her... And what of Robb? Knowing him, he'd never forgive himself for marrying her to Tywin and sending her here. Jon... how'd Jon cope with another piece of dreadful news about her? Sansa, Bran, Rickon... hadn't they suffered enough?

Would Tywin react in any way? Of course, he didn't care for her personally, but the honor of House Lannister was again at stake! But he'd need a fleet to get his revenge on Euron, and even Tywin couldn't built and equip many warships in several days.

She felt inhumanly exhausted. She forgot that she was in constant danger of being killed by Euron's men, that her palms and feet ached, she forgot everything and didn't realize it as she drifted off to sleep. 

Her dreams were troubled – she kept on fighting someone, or running away from someone, or chasing someone. Several times she woke up when in her tosses she hit the wall.

But this nightmare turned into a living one, when she was woken up again by the sound of the opening door.

Arya sat up. Euron Greyjoy was on the doorstep, and a dozen ironborn crowded behind him.

"You're a bit small for my taste," he began with some sadness. "I don't like such skinny waifs. I think we should find another use for you."

Arya's breath hitched. She couldn't believe her luck. To think that her mother used to be worried about her unwomanly looks! It wasn't the first time her thinness and unattractive looks saved her...

"Lord Blacktyde!" Euron smirked. "You're a wench-lord, you're just the match for a boy-maiden! Take her, she's my gift to you!"

He stepped aside to make way for a younger ironborn with long dark hair. The latter grabbed Arya's shoulder without even looking much at her and pulled her out of the closet.

"Ah!" she cried out.

"A fine couple you make, indeed!" Crow's Eye said merrily. "I would love to see which of you will ride whom! Baelor, won't you have a child by her, perhaps?"

The mute pirates grinned from ear to ear.

Before she could blink, she was on the deck, under a drizzling rain, and then she was thrown, like a sack of turnips, onto a ship right next to the  _Silence_. 

When that Blacktyde jumped on its board too and dragged her again – towards his cabin, it seemed – she began to fight but ceased almost immediately. She couldn't run away in the open sea, bound hand and foot, anyway, and if the pirate, annoyed with his stubborn captive, gave her back to Euron, it would be the worst outcome of all. Now that Arya had seen the Greyjoy leader, she knew the rumors were right. He was the most dangerous of them. Worse, he was obviously truly clever, and if she didn't want to be found out, she needed to stay away from him.

Now the cabin, undoubtedly, belonged to the captain of the ship. It was quite spacious, with two whole candles, and the walls were covered with checkered black-and-green draperies – in the Blacktyde colors.

Pushing Arya down on the bed, Baelor Blacktyde looked at her with interest, taking his fur cape off and hanging it on a chair.

"Oh, you even have a sword!" he exclaimed, and suddenly pulled Needle from its sheath and examined it closely. "Excellent quality... castle-forged, no doubt... Where did you steal it?"

_Just stay calm. Just stay calm. Remember Genna and Tywin – they rarely ever raise their voice..._

"I took it from some dead knight, m'lord," she mumbled. Blacktyde thought a while and bent over to slowly cut her ropes with Needle:

"I hope you realize you shouldn't try to run."

Arya nodded. There was nowhere she could escape. She began to rub together her numbed hands; the skin of her palms and feet felt as it was pierced with thousands of needles, but Arya knew it to be a good sign: if there was pain, they hadn't turned necrotic.

Blacktyde put Needle on the lid of a chest in the cabin's corner and took off his coat and boots. Arya's heartbeat drummed in her temples, she madly wished to grab the sword and stab the pirate before he'd realize anything. Of course, it would have been useless – she might have killed him, but not the rest of his crew and certainly not the other ironborn. At least she wasn't tied up anymore, and her tongue was safe for now.

He yawned, blew off both of the candles and lowered himself at her side:

"I'm tired as a dog today. You're in luck – the approach to the shore, then the battle, then getting the  _Nightflyer_ repaired, I don't have any strength for anything else left."

"Thank you, m'lord!" whispered Arya, afraid of another trick, like the last time with Euron. But Blacktyde, it seemed, had said the truth. Even without undressing himself further, he closed his eyes and lay back, and soon by his even breathing Arya guessed he had really fallen asleep.

With all possible caution she rose a little. She moved herself bit by bit towards the edge of the bed and stood on the floor on her tiptoes.  _Quiet as a shadow_.

No, she still had no intentions to kill Blacktyde. She wasn't going to escape either...  _for now._

Sooner or later, the ship would get anchored somewhere, and then she'd have to use the first chance she'd get.

Arya looked around the cabin. It was located close to the rostrum, but too high – she wouldn't be able to jump onto the shore, unless perhaps the ship would dock next to some large rock. The  _Silence_ was ahead of them, and Arya gasped and turned away from the window – the highborn prisoners were still bound to the stern. They seemed to be alive still – at least Raynald Lannister was clearly moving...

_I can't help them now. I have to concentrate._

Her look moved from the window towards the chest, where Needle was lying so invitingly. But Arya restrained herself from coming to get it – she'd wake up Blacktyde with the noise, and then she'd be lucky if he simply tied her up again.

She glanced at the desk – Blacktyde even had that. And she quickly noticed something quite unexpected. Probably the sleepy captain forgot to tidy up properly...

There was a small box with an enameled sigil on the half-opened lid – orange butterflies on a white field. She could see a pile of letters inside.

 _Come on, my lady, you know it_ , Arya imagined Maester Creylen's frowning face. Butterflies, butterflies, butterflies...

House Mullendore, Uplands, sworn to House Hightower! Interesting, how very interesting... Carefully sliding her fingers under the lid, Arya pulled out several sheets and looked at the peacefully sleeping Blacktyde.

In the dark she couldn't read what he had been writing (or what was written to him), but it was clear – such a thick roll of letters couldn't consist of Blacktyde threatening, in the name of Crow's Eye, to raze Oldtown to the ground.


	33. Chapter 33

Arya was woken up by a slight but palpable rocking. Half-asleep, she didn't recall the last events at first and didn't realize the reason for the bed shaking underneath her, so she tried to get more comfortable and suddenly hit something big and warm.

That something moved and rolled over, and long fingers grabbed Arya by her throat. She jerked to her side, trying to push the assailant away at the same time.

"Oh, it's just you," Blacktyde released her neck, but instead his hand moved to her breast. Arya, the last of her sleep shaken off, pressed back into the mattress.

_Don't panic, just don't panic. Don't you remember Genna ordering about everyone at the Rock, even though formally she's not even a Lannister? Self-assuredness is half of the success._

"Don't touch me! Or else..." she took a deep breath, "or else Crow's Eye will learn how friendly you are with certain people of the Reach!"

Blacktyde froze and pulled away his hand, as if it was burned. He slowly turned and looked at the table, where the box with the Mullendore sigil was still standing.

"How do you know?" he said in a tight voice. "You're a village girl..."

"My brother owns an inn in Lannisport, I've seen men with different sigils over there."

The ironborn rose slowly, clenching his teeth. Arya barely breathed: her audacity could save her or could worsen everything even more. What if Blacktyde locked her up in the cabin so that she wouldn't tell anyone, should she even want to? Or if he simply threw her into the sea? Or was he maybe fully devoted to Euron, with the letters being a result of cunning espionage and double play? Anyway, her threat was empty from beginning to end – if it really came to such a choice, she'd rather stay here as Blacktyde's concubine but she wouldn't deal with Euron Greyjoy.

Blacktyde paced the cabin nervously. He took the box, hurriedly put it into the chest and locked it up.

"Please don't tell anyone of these letters," he said at last. "Even my crew doesn't know."

"I won't, m'lord, if you don't touch me," Arya agreed readily. Had her shot in the dark hit the mark?

"At least don't even dare to try and read them," Blacktyde snapped. He must have been ashamed that some girl had him twisted around her finger so easily.

"M'lord, how could I, I can't read at all!" exclaimed Arya. "I can do my name: M-E-G; and my brother showed me numbers, but I forgot half of them."

"What can you do?" he frowned.

"I know a bit of healing, some roots and stuff. My mother healed our neighbors, she started to teach me too, but didn't have time..."

"Good!" Blacktyde cut her short. "You'll do the cleaning here, the deck and so on, and in case of anything you'll help our Blind Beron. And not a breath of the letters, or you'll be overboard in no time!"

"Thank you, m'lord," Arya bowed her head.

Digging in the pockets of his cape, Blacktyde fished out a loaf of dried bread and a small flagon:

"Eat and go out. I'll tell everyone you're for my personal use, and they won't harm you. Blind Beron will tell you what to do."

He threw on his cape and left, straightening his tousled hair as he went. Arya bit into the bread, hardly feeling the taste and just now realizing how hungry she was. 

However, when she was sure the captain's steps had really died down far away, she chuckled and took the sheets she had hidden under her jacket after taking them out of the box with the enameled sigil in the night.

Each of them had the same handwriting on it – a firm but scrawly one. One of the sheets was even signed –  _Mark Mullendore_. The heir to Uplands himself? That was something!

Mostly the letters were dedicated to detailed stories of the Uplands' inhabitants, especially Ser Mark's own family, the wedding of his sister Maris, and sometimes they mentioned some strange Tyanna who  _ran away from the new dog, climbed the weather vane and sat there for three solid hours, squalling like mad_. But sometimes there were interesting moments: it seemed Baelor had been informing his friend of at least a part of Crow's Eye's plans. Mark mentioned Lord Hightower and his own father  _getting the defense planned, and they sent a raven to Lord Tyrell_ ; and he hoped that he wouldn't have to meet Baelor on the battlefield.

Arya finished the bread and took a sip from the flagon – to her surprise, it contained acerb Arbor gold, not mead or rum. Rolling up Mullendore's letters, she stuffed them into the bed's worn-out mattress – she'd try and put them in their rightful place, but since she'd be working on the ship it was risky to carry them around.

She buttoned up her jacket and was going to leave the cabin when she halted: it wouldn't do to have such a presentable look. She ruffled her hair with her fingers as much as she could, rolled up her sleeves and pinched her arms hard enough to bruise, scratched her cheek with her nails, bit her lip until it bled, and, to complete the picture, pulled a wisp of straw from the same mattress, closed her eyes and rubbed it over them. Then she also tried to tear the jacket a bit but couldn't in the end – the good Lannisport cloth withstood it. 

Looking at her blurred reflection in Needle's blade, Arya grimaced: together with yesterday's dirt and blood all dried (oh, how she missed the baths she got used to taking almost every day at the Rock!), she looked hideous. But now, if Euron Greyjoy decided to pay a visit to Blacktyde's ship, "Meg"'s appearance wouldn't make him suspicious. 

The corridor behind the cabin's door was empty. Arya stood there for a while, then she hesitantly went to the stairs leading to the deck and climbed up.

"Finally!" said Blacktyde, who had been talking to a group of sailors. "Beron, deal with her."

Beron turned out to be a thin forty-odd man with long, unkempt greying hair and in a long greyish-green robe, girded with a rope. His sightless grey eyes seemed merely to reflect the cloudy sky. Leaning on a thick stick, he walked towards Arya and outstretched his arm, all chapped from the seawater.

"Come closer," he said in a suddenly quiet and calm voice. His fingers slowly caressed her nape, then her face...

Arya hadn't been ready for that – no, there wasn't a spark of lust in Beron's touch, and his oddly wrinkled skin didn't frighten her either. But she knew that blind men could be much more shrewd than seeing ones and could learn lots about people only by the sound of their voice...

"Are you familiar with healing?" he asked.

"I studied a bit, m'lord."

"You are very short. How many winters have you seen?"

"None, I was born last spring."

"Can you help me prepare concoctions?"

"I'll try, m'lord. I think I can."

"Then let's go. We've got a dozen wounded and we have to care for them. Why are you speaking in a accent strange to you?"

"W-w-what, m'lord?" Arya, who had already relaxed, nearly jumped from the abrupt change of the topic.

"You are deliberately speaking like a Lannisport girl, but you aren't from the Westerlands."

It was useless to hide it. She could only hope that the blind man wouldn't question her further.

"My family's Northern, we had to leave home! I was hiding it because I'm scared! We've had enough troubles!" she blurted out.

"A Northerner she is all right, with such a long face!" someone from the crew laughed. Beron silently took Arya's hand and led her to the aft, where the wounded pirates were lying on improvised beddings. Most of them were quietly cursing, but one or two who had it worst were lying with their eyes closed and only groaning sometimes.

"Here are the herbs," Beron gave her a tray with wisps of dried seaweeds and piles of fresh ones. "You'll mix them up or put them to the wounds, as I say. Don't you try and do anything wrong, I'll tell by the smell," he tossed a small clot of white cloth onto her knees.

If Maester Creylen had been here, Arya would have kissed him: she recognized almost half of the weeds thanks to the engravings and descriptions from Archmaester Ebrose's  _Herbs and Roots_. Without even waiting for Beron's command, she took a handful of "Greyiron's beard" – brown seaweed – and started to carefully bandage them to the nearest patient's hand.

Of course, not everything went so smoothly – Arya hadn't seen many of the seaweeds before. Thankfully, Beron wasn't blind from birth and he could tell her what color were the herbs he needed, but how could she distinguish the color when most of the dried seaweeds were dirty yellow and most of the fresh ones dirty green?

The work itself wasn't hard, and there were few truly serious wounds. Arya was only bothered by the pinches, slaps and bawdy jokes of the pirates who had cheered up quickly at her sight – she suffered through it, reminding herself Blacktyde wouldn't allow anyone to get any further, and Beron, too, didn't permit the wounded to get too lively, saying it would harm them.

It seemed to her that many hours had passed before they dressed the last wound and mixed up the last potion.

"You work well," Beron concluded. "It's good he sent you to our ship. It was hard to do everything by myself."

"Thanks, m'lord," Arya murmured. She no longer tried to imitate the Westerlands accent.

"Come again in the evening to change the bandages.'

"Yes, m'lord."

"If you need tansy anytime, I'll give you some," said Beron with a sudden hint of compassion.

"Thanks, m'lord," she repeated in the same manner. With this blind man, it was the less said the better.

For dinner they gave her a piece of fish mostly consisting of bones. Blacktyde pulled her aside and told her she could further use his Arbor gold, but it was a meager consolation: to quench her hunger, she'd have had to drink several bottles of wine, and she couldn't get drunk, especially not in this situation.

 _You've taught yourself to expect pumpkin soups and glazed biscuits,_ she scolded herself, sucking the fish's tail.  _Have you forgotten living on practically nothing but hardtacks in Yoren's group?_

During the day Blacktyde ordered her to clean the desk, and she had barely finished with that when Beron called her to help with the wounded again. She hadn't had even the time to have a proper look around – after leaving Lannisport, the ships weren't going in such a tight group, and without looking closely she couldn't know what was going on on the  _Silence_ or other galleys. Certainly there were some advantages in it – Arya wouldn't have borne the sight of Raynald Lannister, the Bettley girl and the rest of them tied to the stern. She'd have broken down, attacked the pirates... and would have been quickly and ignominiously killed.

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_ she repeated over and over again. Her rage at the ironborn kept her going, but she couldn't pour it out now. She had to wait.

Where were they going at all? To the Reach? It didn't look like it. Judging by the sun, the fleet was going north – probably Euron was going to leave the trophies and the captives on the Iron Islands and then go on the next raid. On the Islands, it would be her chance to run! With her looks, Arya would blend in with the locals; she only had to avoid overly clever men like this Beron.

When they were over with the second round of dressing wounds, it was nighttime. At dusk it had been even more difficult to tell the seaweeds apart and measure the necessary amount for the concoctions, and Arya was exhausted, like after a whole day of marching.

Only when she left the deck she remembered she had to share a cabin with Blacktyde again. What if he wouldn't restrain himself one day?

 _Calm as still water._ Arya smiled a little, recalling Syrio Forel again. How many times had his teaching helped and supported her?

She couldn't afford to panic. She was in no immediate danger. As far as she could gather, Baelor Blacktyde hadn't got any particular desire to rape her himself – or else she wouldn't have stopped him with that idiotic attempt at blackmail. Moreover, if he was in correspondence with knights from the Reach, he surely wasn't one of the thick-headed, fanatical ironborn – maybe she would be able to reason with him in the future as well...

Blacktyde was already in the cabin. He gloomily commanded her to help him take off his cape and boots but didn't demand anything further – he even allowed her to wash her hands and face in a small tub.

Laying her own jacket on the chest, Arya lay down there, with Needle at her side now. For a moment Blacktyde's brows rose in surprise, but he didn't say anything.

This night Arya wasn't bothered by the rocking anymore.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the first chapter in this fic that I actually wrote in English first and translated into Russian afterwards. I wonder if there will be any noticeable difference :) (Among my stories, "The Odor of Roses", "The Scandal", and "By Your Warden's Order" were written in English and then transferred to Ficbook, but "The Cloak of Snow" started there about two months earlier than here).
> 
> It's just that I began to watch "Downton Abbey", and after two episodes of watching Countess Grantham I knew I had to write some Genna scenes. So, here's for everyone who wanted to know how the mainland's doing...

"I've looked among the bodies and the wounded, dear. No sign of Lady Arya," Emmon Frey said. Genna let out a sigh through clenched teeth:

"It just keeps getting worse."

"Worse? I mean, there is still a hope she is alive," said Lord Morvin.

"Nobody can confirm she actually is, but without a body, we can't proclaim her dead either," Genna said, irritated. "It's the worst situation of all... Well, let's just try to go over it again. Who was the last one to see Arya?"

"Me, aunt," said Martyn. "But she was pushed away so quickly... then I couldn't find her."

They were sitting in the living-room of Lanniscourt. After the castle's garrison, led by Emmon, had arrived to throw the ironborn back, the townsfolk spent a sleepless night counting their losses. The city watch, being the first ones to meet the attackers, lost most of their men, including Ser Verlyn and Ser Claren. There were only about twenty guards left. The ironborn had captured Raynald Lannister and about a dozen more nobles, nearly half of the male wedding guests had been killed, about a hundred women, noble and baseborn, were also taken prisoner. A party of the ironborn had plundered the city's warehouses – which, Genna figured, had been their ultimate goal all along – and taken the better part of flour, grains, meat and vegetables.

On top of it all, Arya Stark-Lannister had disappeared.

"If she is taken by the ironborn, we must take pains to recover her," said Genna. "But what if she isn't? What if she's dead? What if she's lying somewhere with a bruised head and a memory loss, and, since  _somebody_ let her out in page's clothes, almost no one would recognize her?"

She glared at Martyn.

"What was I to do, aunt?" he tried to pacify her. "She  _insisted_. She is my lord uncle's wife!"

"Martyn, are you a lackey or what? Don't you have some brains of your own?" she snapped. "Now that thanks to you, she is nowhere to be found, you'll have a load of problems with your lord uncle, and I'm not even talking of the Stark boy and Catelyn Stark and the rest of their lot."

"Well, we must look for her, then," Martyn said.

"How? How do you propose we do it? She can be anywhere."

"We have to hope she's with the ironborn. At least, in that case it will be easier to find her. We have to make Crow's Eye pay for this raid, anyway!"

"My lord," Lord Morvin interrupted, "we have no fleet. We have even fewer men than before. All we can do is stay low and hope he knows there's little he can take from us now."

His new good-daughter, sitting in the corner of the room with Lady Ylinde, broke into tears:

"And to think the whole point of my marriage was to strengthen our defense against the Iron Islands!"

"Shush, my dear, we have to be strong ourselves, at least," said Lady Ylinde, paler than chalk. "You're staying with us, of course, you, um, had enough time to make your marriage valid."

"Raynald was so nice and kind! Now I'll never see him again!" Roselle wailed.

"Lord Morvin, I think your wife and Lady Roselle should get some rest," said Genna.

Lady Ylinde bowed silently and led Roselle out of the room.

"You must be... er, distressed, too, my lady," Morvin said. "We could discuss this whole thing later..."

Genna stood up straight, towering above him:

"Distressed? Me? Oh, you mean because my good-sister has vanished into thin air? I'm not distressed, my lord, I am angry, very, very angry, and I'm not going to rest until we fix it!"

"What should we do, then? You said that searching was pointless – and we _have_ no fleet to speak of – and I'm not letting anyone out of the town anyway, it's weakened enough as it is."

"Let's start with what we do first. We need to send word to my brother."

Lord Morvin took a step back:

"Er... my lady, I did everything I could to stop Lady Lannister from going to battle..."

"He might be too busy with the White Walkers," Genna went on, "but this is exactly one of the times when I need his advice, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Do you think Casterly Rock has any men to spare? We lost about three dozen from what was already a small garrison for such a castle, and my nephew Willem has been severely wounded. On the other hand, if we just sit here and do nothing, as you seem to be suggesting, other robbers might get the idea that anyone can attack Lannisport, kill or injure or abduct the Warden of the West's wife, and get away with it!"

"All right, my lady. Shall I send a raven?"

"Send it to Winterfell. Either Tywin's still there, or they'll send a messenger further to catch up with him."

"Maybe we ought to send word to Riverrun, too?" Martyn suggested. "Arya's mother and all the siblings except for Robb Stark are all there."

"Fine. Lord Morvin, you and I both will send two ravens to each of the places. See to it."

"Four ravens from me? But my lady..."

"All right. Send a messenger party. Weren't you saying you can't afford to let men leave Lannisport?"

"My lady, I have... I have only two ravens available."

Genna rolled her eyes:

"Men! I lose all my patience with you. Emmon, talk to Lord Bettley, Lady Vikary, anyone who has losses! We have to ensure that the news reaches Tywin in time!"

"Yes, dear!" Emmon nodded and hurried away, accompanied by a group of red cloaks.

"Lord Bettley has losses?" Martyn inquired.

"Haven't you seen it in the battle? Jon, Armedor and Robar were all slain, and Laina's captured."

"It was such a blur, I couldn't very well see everybody... Oh, poor Laina. I danced with her, too."

"And House Bettley is left without an heir," Genna said thoughtfully. "I suppose after Lord Danrod's death their castle now passes to the Peckledons – or is it the Sarwycks? Janos Peckledon is Danrod's fourth cousin once removed, and the Sarwycks are second cousins, but it's on the mother's side... I'll have to sort it out..."

She yawned:

"A pity if Arya's dead. She was a promising sort of girl. Although, as we can all see, she wasn't always as clever as she wanted to be."

"Aunt, if there is no more to discuss for now – can I go and see how Willem's doing?" Martyn asked tentatively. "Last time I saw him, he was pretty bad."

"I told the two of you several times, you know – you are not to lead the charge! Tywin left you here to keep you safe, not to have you make oh so heroic sacrifices! How bad?"

"Several deep wounds, that's all they told me," Martyn said. "I... I really don't know how we shall do if he's... he..."

"Go and see him, then! Lord Morvin, do arrange everything with your maester!"

"He's tending to the wounded, my lady."

"Damn. Maggy!" she called. Her maidservant instantly appeared at the door – Genna took her everywhere. "Help this imbecile sort out his own ravens, of which he only has two."

"Yes, my lady," the elderly woman curtseyed. "My lord, I know ravenry, I can help..."

She followed Lord Morvin out of the room. 

Genna sighed, wiped her face with a handkerchief and poured herself a glass of wine. There was still the matter of breaking the news to Dorna – the latter had complained of a headache, after all these preparations, and taken some milk of a poppy in the evening, which meant even a cannon wouldn't wake her till noon...

Emmon came in:

"Lord Bettley is going home to arrange for the ravens, dear, and Ser Brax will do the same as soon as his brother recovers a bit, and Lady Vikary's handmaiden said she'll pass the word to her mistress."

"Thank you, Emmon," Genna gave him a small smile, which was a rarity.

"Um, anytime, dear. Er... I went to see Lord Willem. He's woken up."

"How's he?"

"The wounds will mend soon, but both his legs are broken."

" _What_? How did he manage that? Oh, wait, don't answer. It's Willem we're talking about, isn't it? First he charges headfirst into battle and gets captured at the Whispering Wood, then he does everything to underline he's so very vexed at all the Starks, including Arya, now he charges headfirst into fighting  _again_! I should have made him stay at the Rock after he brought the news, but he seemed so composed then, and I was foolish and distracted enough to believe he'd stay this way. Ugh! Why do I have to deal with all of that?"

"Well, he is alive, isn't he?"

"Yes, he's alive, but he will be bedridden for six moons, if not more! Then he'll have to train his legs all over again. Really, Emmon, you men bring all this on yourself just by not thinking."

"It's not so bad, Genna," he tried again. "I mean – well –  _I_ am not wounded."

"Luckily," she said, and Emmon beamed:

"You... you think so?"

"For sure I do. I only have the strength for so many sickbeds at the same time," she groaned. 

"Anything else you need, dear?"

"No – sit down – have some wine. How are Ty and Walder?"

"Both are fine, they're helping with the most necessary repairs. Well, they didn't fight, they stayed behind," Emmon said, sitting in the chair opposite her with a grateful smile.

"Unlike some obnoxious twins we know. Why, oh, why didn't they take after Kevan? He is always so careful."

"They are young, dear."

"No excuse."

"So... what now? The plans, Lord Tywin's orders, everything was so... tied to Lady Arya, and now..."

"We wait for Tywin's reply," Genna said firmly. "We can't help her in our present state, even if we want to."

"We want to?"

"She is, was – oh, I don't know – she is a brainy child. With a potential. But there is the matter of men and ships, and we have neither, Emmon."

"Uh, right, I suppose Lord Tywin will know what to do," Emmon said hesitantly. His wife had rarely sounded so uncertain. But then again, the kingdom had never been attacked by the White Walkers  _and_ Crow's Eye at the same time. "Are we staying in Lannisport for the night?"

"The  _night_? Emmon, look out of the windows – it's dawn already. I have to make sure that at least some of the ravens get sent, and then we're going to the Rock. There's still poor Dorna to deal with. She doesn't know a thing, remember?"

"What about the wounded?"

"We're taking Willem, of course, the rest of the bedridden ones will stay here until they're well enough to travel."

"And the supplies?"

"We only have enough at the Rock to feed us... or no, we don't have even that, after that blasted fire. I suppose we'll have to discuss it with the bannermen. They'll loath to be parted from what they already have, but we can't let Lannisport starve. If we lose it, we lose half of the Westerlands."

"Could I send word to my father?"

"Him?" she laughed bitterly. "He'd rather part with another stack of children than with a single sack of grain."

"Could  _you_ write to him? Or Lord Tywin?"

"We must first make sure Tywin knows what happened here. We can't afford to send all of the Rock's ravens away."

"He will be furious," Emmon shuddered.

"You bet he will. His  _wife_ disappeared! People don't disappear like that! There might be rumors she ran away."

"She didn't! Everyone says she fought! She is killed or captured or wounded."

"But there is no evidence that she  _hadn't_ run away," Genna shook her head. "Oh, no, Emmon, we  _have_ to sort it out as quickly as possible, and for that, we need Tywin's advice – also as quickly as possible. As a Lannister, I have to protect the good name of our House."

Emmon took her hand and held it. He didn't remind her she wasn't actually a Lannister. To be honest, he hardly remembered it himself.


	35. Chapter 35

The "family council", as Lady Catelyn called it when she asked Tyrion to attend, turned out to be rather a strained affair – mostly because of the "family" part being questionable. Lady Roslin was still practically a stranger to everyone, Rickon still distrusted Tyrion, and the Blackfish was hardly known to his grand-niece and grand-nephews. After a few forced smiles and greetings and meaningless questions on how the irregulars were training, Bran Stark and Maester Luwin stumbled through explanations, feeling clearly uneasy. The explanations seemed to come out straight from a book of fairy stories (and not a very original one at that).

"You can  _warg_ into your _direwolves_?" Tyrion stared at the boys. Rickon was as confused as everyone else, but Bran had a knowing look on his face.

"I... I've only just discovered it," Lady Catelyn said in a shaky voice, hugging both boys tightly. "But, believe me, my lord, Maester Luwin does  _not_ think up fantastic stories just for the sake of it, and then we've asked the Hound..."

"And he confirmed it too?"

"He did."

Tyrion slowly let out his breath. Sandor Clegane had a lot of faults, but lying wasn't among them. Still, this was something you didn't hear every day...

"Can you warg like that now? Just, you know, to demonstrate?"

"I don't know," Rickon said. "I don't think Shaggy wants me to."

"I'll try," said Bran.

"You seem very calm, my lord," said Tyrion. "If I had discovered I can move my mind into some beast or other, I would have been at least mildly surprised."

Bran burst into explanations:

"Oh, but, you see, Jojen and Meera explained it to me already! I've had these peculiar dreams, all sorts of them, and sometimes these were dreams of Summer – that's my direwolf's name. So Jojen told me about skinchangers: there used to be many of them among the children of the forest, but now only few remain, and they are usually weak – like, they don't get further than dreaming, and I thought I was like that too. Jojen said that one of his friends – Rickard Quagg – has dreams through the eyes of a lizard-lion. But then, in the battle, when I saw them attacking Uncle Brynden, I didn't think, I just... I don't even know... I found myself in Summer's body."

He patted his direwolf's head, and Summer nuzzled his hand.

For once in his life, Tyrion was speechless. Ever since the existence of the White Walkers had been confirmed, things seemed to have turned upside down in the Seven Kingdoms. Now  _this_! Two boys, one almost a baby and one a cripple...

"If you can, try and warg, please," Tyrion finally said.

Bran nodded and frowned dedicatedly.

He grimaced, gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, but nothing happened.

"I can't!" he groaned finally. "But believe me, my lord, I _did_ that during the battle!"

 _Well, what did you expect?_ Tyrion thought, biting back the sarcastic remark he had almost blurted out.  _He's_ _a bloody_ boy, _less than ten years old! Even if he has discovered all these magical abilities, do you think he can control them?_ In the old books on high mysteries he had read, it was always stressed that skinchanging and suchlike required years of proper training and study.

Summer licked Bran's face, growling affectionately, and lay at his feet – and suddenly, the boy's eyes were closed and his head fell back. Lady Roslin shrieked with fright. Catelyn gasped and reached out for him, only to be met by the grey direwolf, giving her a completely human look of triumph and joy. 

In a split second, it was gone, and Bran sucked in a breath as he opened his eyes again.

Tyrion realized his mouth had been hanging open.

"Whew," said the Blackfish, who had previously been calmly standing in the corner. "That's... that's..."

"It's amazing," Maester Luwin said, his eyes gleaming with academic enthusiasm. "The first skinchanger in the Seven Kingdoms in... how many years? Hundreds, or, more likely, thousands!"

"That's not the main point! Don't you see what it means?" the Blackfish said. "It can give us an advantage over the Walkers..."

"What? Wait a moment!" Lady Catelyn leaned over her sons like a bird over its nestlings. "Uncle Brynden, what do you mean? All right, I agree that the boys have... can... I agree that they've told the truth! But are you implying they should fight the Walkers? Only over my dead body! Whatever their abilities, they are only kids!"

"Jojen can teach me..." Bran squeaked, crushed in his mother's protective embrace.

"Jojen is a boy, too!"

"Cat, calm down," said Ser Brynden. "I'm not suggesting or implying anything yet. Still, we can't let these... um... talents go unnoticed."

"I'd rather have Bran and Rickon alive and without talents than let them fight the Walkers, thank you! We've taken such pains to bring them here, and now you're saying they should go north to Greywater Watch and then to the Wall, if Jojen 'teaches them'!"

"Mother, but what if our army _doesn't_ defeat the Walkers?" Bran interrupted. "What if our warging is the only thing that can help?"

"How?" Catelyn snapped.

"Wargs of the old times could enter the body of any creature, or so I've read," Tyrion said thoughtfully. "If, for instance, Jojen – who's he, by the way?.."

"Jojen Reed, Lord Howland's son," Sansa said.

"If Jojen or anyone else trains the boys to enter the minds of birds, we can send them to set fire to the farthermost parts of the Lands of Always Winter..."

"Shut up!" Catelyn cried, tears glistening in her eyes. "I am not letting my children do any such thing, I am..." she burst out sobbing.

"Cat, maybe you should rest," the Blackfish suggested, putting an arm on her shoulders. "It's been a great enough shock for you already."

"What about Robb, though?" she whispered. "Robb is out there... what if there really is no other way to save him?!"

She wiped her tears with her fist like a little girl, not bothering with a handkerchief:

"I am sorry. I am being nothing but rude, tearful and useless. I... I just... I have almost lost all of you – Sansa – Bran and Rickon... and Robb's out fighting... and Arya's at Casterly Rock..."

"Well?" Tyrion said.

Lady Catelyn took a deep breath:

"We shall... we shall go to Greywater Watch. I'm going with the boys."

"What about me?" Sansa asked.

"Sansa, I want to know you're safe here..."

"Thank you, Mother, I've had enough of the safety of King's Landing. Either we go together or we all stay here. I'm done with being separated from my family."

"I will go too!" squeaked Roslin. She had done nothing but stare at the entire scene with large, terrified eyes, and Tyrion was startled – he had forgotten she was there.

"Roslin, dear..." Catelyn began.

"Lady Sansa is younger than me, so if she goes, I go too! I don't want to stay here, and I..." she looked at them pleadingly, "I am also one of the family, am I not?"

As Roslin took Catelyn's hand, and Catelyn smiled at her through tears, Tyrion felt a stab of envy. Whatever this "council" was called,  _he_ wasn't one of such a family and would never be. 

"Now, my ladies, please," the Blackfish said. "It's heartbreaking, but I have to say it: when we go on, I will only take the boys. No, don't argue. Robb said firmly that all three of you are staying at Riverrun. The Neck is already a dangerous place, and as for the North – well, no need to repeat it. Bran and Rickon are safer now with their warging talents, but you will only put yourselves in unnecessary dangers. Cat, I'm talking to you first of all, because Sansa and Roslin look up to you and they'll stay here if you do. You have just protested against sending the not-so-helpless, as it turns out, boys against the enemy. Sansa and Roslin can't warg, can't fight, and I doubt if they can hold up on the march."

"I can't either," Catelyn finished, resigned, and blinked her tears away.

"But Great-Uncle, we have been..."

"Apart for long enough, I understand, Sansa. However, now that we've discovered a potential weapon – the warging – we need to use it. Or else we'll just be destroyed by the Walkers, and it won't matter whether we're together or apart."

"He's right, Lady Sansa," Tyrion added. "Anything can happen, and you – well – you know it. At least some members of the Great Houses have to stay behind."

"But what about Arya? She's far in the south." Rickon asked. An uncomfortable silence followed his words.

"Arya – she doesn't... um... _count_ as a Stark, now that she's married," Sansa said finally. Rickon pouted, the world of diplomacy still a mystery to him.

The Blackfish coughed:

"So! It seems that the army will be leaving with the boys after all."

"I will go with them – and Hodor too," Maester Luwin said quickly.

"Of course," said Brynden. "Although for you, Maester, it might be better to stay behind..."

"I'm sworn to Winterfell, my lord," said the maester. "If I die in this war, I'll die in the North – and on duty."

"Don't die!" Rickon piped in. "Please don't!"

"I won't if I can help it," the old man smiled, trying to ease the general tension.

The discovery of warging was to be carefully kept a secret until the army reached Greywater Watch. Bran and Rickon, said Catelyn firmly, had been through enough, and if the word ever got out, then, for a whole crowd of soldiers and locals, they would be like dwa... um, clowns at a freak show. 

"It's a pity the Hound knows," she added.

"He's hardly the soul of the company," said Tyrion.

"He won't say anything," said Sansa.

Catelyn frowned:

"He's Joffrey's sworn shield, how can you be sure?"

"Well, there's not much to do now anyway," said Tyrion. "The more often we mention warging outside of our – ahem – family circle, the higher is the chance someone would overhear."

"What if Joffrey orders him to watch us?" she was still anxious.

However, despite Catelyn's worries, nobody said a word about skinchangers in the following weeks. The Hound never went near the Starks – Tyrion noticed how his eyes followed Lady Sansa if she happened to be nearby, but he never sought her out by himself. So far Tyrion was the only one to notice  _that_ , and he hoped Catelyn and Sansa never would. Knowing how the elder Lady Stark was prone to jump to hasty conclusions, she would be quick to accuse the entire Kingsguard of molesting her daughter, and as for poor Sansa, she would in all probability be frightened out of her wits. 

But, though the secret was guarded all right, there was a lot of trouble elsewhere. In particular, Rickon Stark, as soon as he took in what had been decided at that council, became a major problem. Unlike Bran, he hardly understood the need for training his warging ability and wasn't particularly friendly with the Reeds. He was much more eager to stay with his mother and sister than to go through the marshes into the gloomy Greywater again. The prospects of seeing lizard-lions ("I saw them when we were going here with Uncle Brynden – they aren't too interesting!"), living at Greywater ("It shakes too much and it's wet and dark!") and meeting Jojen and Meera Reed ("They are boring, they speak in riddles!") didn't excite him, and the Blackfish just barely managed to appease him with the promise of real fights in the future.

Catelyn spent practically every minute with the boys, which left Sansa and Roslin pretty much with each other. But the elder girl was too quiet and naive even by Sansa's standards, so they could hardly talk. Ultimately, Sansa decided to keep the company of Tyrion and Shae – Tyrion, who was also anxious to spend his last days at Riverrun by Shae's side, wasn't very glad about it, but he didn't reveal as much to Sansa. Besides, Shae pitied her mistress and would have been offended on her part if Tyrion pushed her away.

After hours of sewing or sorting supplies, the three of them usually spent evenings in the library – Sansa was quite pleasant to talk to, she was pretty well-read, could converse on almost any topic (except for the lewdest ones that Tyrion and Shae now limited to their bedroom talks), and she was a good listener too. Tyrion thought that if his father had married  _her_ , he would have felt more hopeful of his own future (should he, of course, survive this war). He would have liked to ask her about her sister – he hardly knew Arya from Winterfell – but he figured the subject, especially in view of the approaching departure of Bran and Rickon, would be much too painful.


	36. Chapter 36

Winterfell had never felt so alien, and Robb so alone.

The castle was packed with soldiers, the locals were naturally tense with the southerners – it had been bad enough at the time of King Robert's visit (had it really been less than two years since then?), and now, with danger looming in the north and an army of strangers, even of nominally friendly strangers, arriving from the south, Robb felt like he was sitting on a casket of wildfire.

Theon continued to live as a prisoner. Robb couldn't figure out what to do with him. On one hand, he hadn't shown even the slightest hints of remorse for his betrayal, mumbling that he merely wanted to make Balon Greyjoy proud, and pardoning someone who dared to storm the northern capital wouldn't make Robb more popular even with his own subjects. On the other... the many years of friendship (if it had been friendship...) weren't so easy to forget, and Theon's execution wouldn't help in making peace with the Greyjoys. Crow's Eye wasn't rumored to be a loving uncle, but he would use any slight against his family to inflame the islanders' battle fury.

Staying in Winterfell and waiting for the men of the Crownlands and the Riverlands to reach them, for all the irregulars to gather and all the supplies to arrive was somehow even worse than being on the march, because here, Robb was also expected to govern the castle and the lands as if nothing serious was happening. 

Many of his personal guards took leave – all of them were planning to return for the march, of course, and he picked temporary replacements from the higher ranks of the army, but still, it felt different without them. Robb wasn't complaining of this to anyone – it had been him who suggested Robin Flint, Donnel Locke, Owen Norrey and all the others should go and see their mothers and sisters (who knew?) one last time – but it was hard to be surrounded by allies yet with few actual friends.

Some guards stayed, though. The Umbers and Wendel Manderly didn't leave, and Dacey Mormont said that _her_ mother and two of her sisters were in fact planning to join the army, so there was no point in her leaving for Bear Island only to, most likely, meet Lady Maege in the middle of the road. (Personally, Robb suspected that Dacey's reluctance to go could also have something to do with a certain red-haired knight from the Westerlands, but nobody in their rightful mind would mention it in front of Dacey herself).

Tywin and Jaime Lannister weren't at ease either – not that Tywin Lannister could _ever_ be at ease, Robb thought. Jaime Lannister spent all days in the training yard, bored without real fights and lashing his sharp tongue at everyone in sight. His father wasn't bored – at least didn't look bored – and devoted only the mornings to exercise, spending the rest of the day at his work, which included holding council with Robb about any possible defense against the White Walkers. But his constant condescending manner either outraged Robb or made him feel a fool (depending on who, in his opinion, was currently in the right). 

The burning swords were still a problem. Tyrion hadn't been able to find any exact details on them (although he had done a good deal of research in the library of Riverrun). However, Robb had written to Jon and asked him what Lyonel Frey had entirely omitted in his tales: how was that White Walker head chopped off?

Jon wrote back that none of them were sure for now, but there was a possibility it had something to do with the blade being made of dragonglass.

"That can be found on Dragonstone," Tywin Lannister said thoughtfully when he heard of it. "But we'll need to have more proof..."

"What sort of more proof?" Robb cried. "That's the only thing that harms them."

"Except for fire."

"That harms them and is less dangerous for us than fire."

"Well, dragonglass might not be dangerous in itself, but an expedition to Dragonstone? With the winter weather and Euron Greyjoy at sea?" 

Robb sighed bitterly:

"Aren't there any places on Westeros where it can be found?"

"I'm sure there aren't any in the Westerlands," said Tywin. "But we might search in the North, as a matter of fact."

"The North?" 

"If there had been dragonglass anywhere south of the Neck, the Citadel would have known about it long ago. They make a point of digging up all sorts of things that are useful once in a thousand years. But your lands are sparsely populated, so we have a chance." 

"Well, what do we do?" Robb asked anxiously. "Do we have anyone who can search for it?"

"Lord Stark, might I remind you that most of my bannermen know quite a lot about mining?"

"But will we scatter the army again? After all the trouble we've gone through to put it together?" Robb let out a mirthless laugh.

"If there really is a chance..." Tywin said. "If if is really there, we have to do it. I'm sure the Night's Watch wants help, not a dead weight."

"And if we have dragonglass, we can truly change things for the better," Robb finished. "Oh, but how I hate the delays."

"Some of your bannermen have gone to their castles," Tywin pointed out. "They might send search parties of their own, to save time for my men."

"But we have no maester – I mean, Maester Wylmar is doing the healing duties, but he has little experience with the ravens of Winterfell. He can receive the birds and tend to them, but doesn't know much about sending them, especially to minor castles."

"What, has the castle maester died?"

"No, he's gone with Bran and Rickon to Riverrun." 

"That was rash. What have you planned to do in a matter of urgency – like now?"

"Bran can't walk, there can also be a matter of urgency," said Robb. "Rickon is wild, and Maester Luwin is one of the few who can manage him."

The Northerners wouldn't have been much help without mining experience anyway, Tywin figured. On the very same day, he began to send out his soldiers (who complied happily, anxious for some action, even if it didn't involve fighting).

 

Kevan Lannister, for all his soft heart and mild manner, wasn't an easily-shaken man – with a brother like Tywin, one obviously couldn't help but develop nerves of steel. That's why, when Robb saw him bursting into the hall, white as snow, with a letter clutched in his hand, he instantly knew the news wasn't simply bad. It was something catastrophic.

"What is it?" he cried. "Is it from the Wall? The Walkers? They have..."

"No, Lord Stark, it's not the Walkers – have you seen my brother?"

"I saw him last sending off the mining party, he must be at the gates... I'll go call him."

"Oh, no, Lord Stark, wait – it concerns you, too."

An icy foreboding crept up.

"Arya?" he whispered. "Is she..."

"Euron Greyjoy plundered Lannisport," Kevan said in a choked voice. Robb clenched the door handle, feeling his heart sink:

"Did he reach Casterly Rock as well?"

"He plundered Lannisport during the wedding of Lord Morvin's son, to which Lady Arya was also invited. Lord Morvin writes... the girl insisted to go to battle, and... She has disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Robb repeated. "So – there is some chance? It's possible she might be alive yet?"

"As much chance as one can have with Crow's Eye involved," Kevan murmured. "Oh... the poor girl..."

He swallowed and put his hand on his forehead. 

"There are heavy losses?" Robb asked quietly. Kevan nodded.

"My son Willem," he groaned. "He's got both his legs broken – but at least, he made it out alive. But Ser Claren, the commander of the watch, is dead... Ser Latir Farlann... Ser Verlyn Wavelann... all three of the Bettley boys..." he shut his eyes tight. "Oh, the wind outside is biting. I'm not... er... used to such cold."

Robb gritted his teeth. His throat clenched.  _Why, why was I such a fool? How could I marry her off to Lord Tywin?! How could I send her to that place? I said it was safe, too! Now she is captured by that one-eyed monster, and she's most probably cursing me for casting her out like this! If she is still able to curse... I've heard stories of Crow's Eye and how he treats prisoners... Curse_ me  _for arranging that damned marriage! If it hadn't been for my own idiocy, Arya would have been safe, sound and happy at Riverrun!_

He couldn't help it and cried out, giving the door a punch. The pain in his knuckles brought him to his senses.

_She might still be alive. I can't be going into hysterics like a serving maid._

What happened in the next hour was a complete blur. Afterwards he couldn't even recall whether it was him or Kevan or a servant who went to fetch Tywin. Then they told someone else the news – some of his bannermen, or the Lannisters'. It didn't matter. Rodrik Cassel announced Maege Mormont with her younger daughters and granddaughters had arrived – all of them had heard nothing... Somebody – Robb himself, or Tywin, or Kevan – explained to them what happened. Robb remembered the motherly embrace of Lady Maege, who promised him she'd smash Euron Greyjoy with her mace or something like that. They went to look for Ser Jaime – someone said they had seen him in the training yard. He wasn't there anymore – instead, there were Addam Marbrand and Dacey Mormont, kissing furiously and oblivious to the outside world. Lady Maege, the mother in her taking priority over the Stark vassal, was instantly outraged, and Robb begged her not to make a scene at this moment. All this time, there was one thought pounding in his temples:  _Arya is most probably captured by the Greyjoys. If we hurry, we can still save her._

He relaxed a bit only when he found himself at the table in the hall, with the allies and bannermen around him.

“As most of you already know,” he said, finally finding his voice, “Euron Greyjoy has turned himself against the Seven Kingdoms once more. He dared to storm Lannisport without any sort of warning or attempt at negotiating. The town lost many people, and… and it’s likely he captured my sister. This can’t be suffered!” he shouted.

Both the northmen and the westermen exploded with raged yells.

“However,” Robb continued, “neither the Lannisters nor ourselves have a proper war fleet. Therefore, we’ll have to send word to Stannis Baratheon and ask him for help.”

“Problem is – will he help?” asked Wendel Manderly. “He can’t have more than one thought in that wooden head of his, and right now it’s the defeat of the Walkers.”

“Even Stannis will see we are less likely to defeat the Walkers if Crow’s Eye raids the western coast,” said Tywin.

“He might decide to deal with Euron only if the pirate actually attacks him,” said Maege Mormont. “His army’s not large enough to split. If we want his ships, we should offer him something.”

“Stannis won’t accept anything less than the Iron Throne,” Raynald Westerling said gloomily.

“But he did go here to help the Night’s Watch, even though the crows stay away from politics and can’t declare for him even if they want to!” said Marbrand. “Stannis might be narrow-minded but he’s no fool. I agree with Lord Tywin.”

“What about the men, though?” Robb asked. “It’s true that Stannis can’t afford to split his army. He has a castle to maintain, ironborn prisoners to guard and the Walkers to fend off.”

“I’ll send my own troops, of course,” said Tywin. “It’s my wife who’s disappeared.”

Robb thought he detected the previous fury through the Old Lion’s calm exterior. Was it merely the wounded Lannister pride? Was he already imagining a new verse added to _The Rains of Castamere_ , this time describing what he’d do to the Iron Islands?

Or did he care about Arya? At least a little bit?

“That would be the best solution,” Kevan said. “This way, Stannis will only have to provide basic crew for the ships.”

He looked around at the Lannister vassals thoughtfully:

“Ser Marbrand, will you lead the party against Greyjoy?”

“I will, certainly, my lord,” Marbrand rose from the table and bowed. A frightened gasp came from the northerners’ side.

“Excellent. Take the men you need and march without delay,” said Tywin. Now Robb was sure the anger was still there.

“Lord Lannister?” Lady Maege suddenly called.

“Lady Mormont?” Tywin turned to her.

“I think it would be better if our troops would also include people familiar with the sea and the coastline. I suggest myself and,” she grimaced, but seemed to make up her mind, “my eldest daughter Lady Dacey, along with our best soldiers, to go too.”

Robb’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. He had expected Lady Maege to join the group herself – after all, she planned on smashing Euron with her mace. But for her to actually offer to take Dacey along…

“Is it wise, Tywin?” Kevan asked worriedly. “I mean – they are ladies.”

“They aren’t ladies, they are Mormonts,” Wendel Manderly corrected him, laughing.

“The Mormonts fought brilliantly during the Greyjoy Rebellion,” Robb nodded. “Even against Crow’s Eye, any grown woman from Bear Island isn’t at a larger risk than a good southern warrior.”

“Or maybe the risk for the woman is even smaller,” added Marbrand. “I’m not used to women going to battle, but first, I have seen Lady Dacey’s fighting and it’s very hard to defeat her, second, if they made up their minds, it will be useless to argue anyway.”

Robb felt a pang of sadness. _He_ couldn’t go: he had to oversee the dragonglass miners, and govern the castle, and collect the supplies, and train the irregulars, and see to it that everything in the army stayed in order. All over again, this hustle was more important for him than saving his sister. Why did he have to become – and remain – the King in the North?

Perhaps Tywin was also angry for the same reason?..

But no, of course not. He had begun to rule even before he married his beloved first wife. For that sort of man, ruling easily came first.


	37. Chapter 37

"Come on, you greenland fool!"

The supple wooden stick smacked her across the arm as Arya was carefully cutting a loaf of bread. She didn't even blink. Compared to some monsters she remembered from Harrenhal, Uthor, the cook of the  _Nightflyer,_ was a fluffy harmless kitten. He used his stick often, for sure, but he didn't even care to look what it actually hit, and since most of Arya's arm was covered with her thick page's jacket, she hardly felt any pain.

It had been about ten days since her capture. Her life on the  _Nightflyer_ was pretty uneventful – thankfully, Euron and his minions never checked up on them, and Blacktyde's crew were, on the whole, all right in comparison with them or the Mountain's Men. Uthor was the worst one of those with whom she had to deal, and she helped out in the kitchen only occasionally. Usually her days were filled with scrubbing the decks and assisting Beron, and her nights were spent peacefully on the wooden chest in Blacktyde's cabin. Definitely, it wasn't a terrible life for a prisoner.

However, in comparison with all her previous captivities, she felt infinitely more lonely. She didn't dare talk to Beron, fearing he'd find her out, or to Blacktyde, since she realized one careless word could put an end to his gallant treatment of her. For all the terrors of Harrenhal, she hadn't been fully lonely there. She had had Gendry, Hot Pie, and occasionally Jaqen at her side... and, of course, for some unfathomable reason, Tywin liked to talk to her too. His company was interesting, actually, once you got past the fact he was the enemies' mastermind.

 _If we ever meet again, I'll tell him: "My lord, I've missed you during my time with the ironborn". I'd love to see his face when he hears it!_ She chuckled to herself, but it was the truth: along with her own family, she  _did_ miss him as well, especially when she worked in the kitchen and vividly recalled her cupbearer duties. 

"You damned lackwit snail, do you want to go back to the _Silence_? Their cooks won’t be as nice as me!" Uthor barked, swishing his stick again. Arya bit her lip and carried the plate with the bread out onto the deck. Uthor followed her with a jug of water and a tray of fishes. Fish, bread and water in different combinations comprised pretty much every meal on the ship.

Arya sat on the deck, sucking on the leftover piece of bread she had taken for herself. Of course, she’d have to do some scrubbing to get rid of the crumbs, and afterwards it would be a round of bandaging… There were a couple of men down with fever, too.

The strong breeze ruffled her hair. They had had a favorable wind almost since leaving Lannisport…

Arya looked ahead, at an endless grey field of water. She had no idea the sea was so huge. If it took them so long to get to the Iron Islands, how and when would she get back?

 _Where is back, anyway?_ She knew her home was supposed to be Casterly Rock, and she had grown partial to it during the weeks spent there, but she wanted to go to the North. Where everyone was fighting for the realm, not parading around in dresses of silk and brocade. 

Speaking of which, another thing she missed acutely was her battle practice. There was no danger of her going weak and fat in this place, but her hands, she feared, could forget how to handle a sword, a knife or a bow. She had grown very skilled in her exercises with Martyn - with swords, in fact, she had defeated him quite a few times during her last days at the Rock - but she wasn't sure if that skill wouldn't vanish without more practicing. If she was useless in a fight, she would be useless at the Wall, even should she manage to get there.

_There is, of course, always the ultimate rule of sticking them with the pointy end..._

She scrubbed the deck with a cloth Blacktyde had given her from his torn cape, hardly noticing what she was doing.

 _Maybe it will be better to stay on the ship instead of running away on the Islands. After all, how will I leave them? They don't take girls on their warships, except as servants or bed slaves, and I look less like a boy with every month. At least, the_ Nightflyer  _men don't touch me, and Beron praises my work, and Blacktyde, I think, won't want me to leave because he's frightened I'll spill his secret. If Crow's Eye is going to the Reach afterwards, I might be able to escape when the ship's passing close to the shore... I might even join the Reach army when it marches to the Wall - that is, if it hadn't marched already - but they'll still be sending caravans with provisions, on the other hand..._

"Meg! Where are you? Help me with the mixture!"

Blind Beron was preparing his own sort of herbal tea for the sick. It had to be very hot and was extremely bitter - Arya tried it once while she was mixing it, and the taste went away only after several hours - but, according to Beron, it was vital in cooling the fever and softening the cough. 

Giving the deck one last wipe, Arya wiped her hands on her jacket and hurried to Beron's side.

That particular mixture was so precious to him that he kept some ingredients secret from her. Or maybe, just as likely, they were very poisonous and he wanted to make sure there was no overdose - whether by her intention or by carelessness on her part. Anyway, when she came, she saw him with a kettle half-full of the potion already.

"Add a handful of royal herb," he ordered, "and a pinch of muskroot and of black maidenhair... Careful, Meg! Not too much! There's no place to get more muskroot in winter, in the middle of the sea..."

 _Why do we need such a huge kettle of the mixture?_ Arya wondered. Only two men had fever now, and neither of them had cough.  _Well, maybe he's preparing it in advance._

"Mix it," Beron said, giving her the kettle and a wooden spoon. "Mix it very well."

That was something she excelled it: Beron once said that usually servant girls got tired quickly, but Arya, with her strong arms, could go on mixing for an hour.

He smiled and nodded approvingly as the wooden spoon banged against the kettle.

For once, Arya spoke out, seeing he was in a good mood:

"M'lord, may I stay on the ship after we come to the Islands, too? I like workin' here... I don't wan' to be a salt wife..."

"That's for the captain to decide," said Beron after a tiny, almost undetectable pause. "Get on with work, Meg, don't be distracted."

What was he implying? Were they going to sell her to a brothel, after all? Or, even worse, was Blacktyde going to return her to Euron? No, he wouldn't do that, not since she knew of his letters... Maybe Beron wasn't as satisfied with her work as she thought?

_Well, most important, I need to avoid Euron at all costs. Even if they throw me out on the Iron Islands, I'll figure something out._

In the evening, the wind strengthened. For the first time since her first night on the  _Nightflyer_ , Arya noticed the rocking - the waves were growing.

"Will there be a bad storm, m'lord?" she asked Blacktyde, when she got to his cabin.

"It seems like it," he shrugged.

"Perhaps..." she began. "Er... perhaps we'll be able to reach Iron Islands before that?"

"We aren't going to the Iron Islands, Meg," Blacktyde said bitterly.

"What?" her jaw dropped. "But... but, m'lord, there's nothing else in the Sunset Sea!"

"Crow's Eye is heading to the Shadow Lands," the captain said in the tone of someone who was past caring about anything.

Arya barely restrained herself from crying out in shock: she remembered just in time that a commoner wouldn't know where the Shadow Lands were.

_They are in the furthermost parts of Essos! How are we going to reach them, going west?!_

"Never heard of them, m'lord, but they sound scary," she squeaked in the best frightened voice she could manage. "Where are they? Are they the place where the Walkers come from?"

"They're in Essos, Meg."

It seemed he wasn't going to answer any more of her questions or tell her more about these Lands.

_No wonder Beron's preparing so much mixture! We'll need to make such a huge circle to get there... Is he planning to raid Dorne on the way? Or Sothoryos? What is he going to do once he reaches these Lands?_

Ironic, really: at any other time Arya would have been absolutely thrilled at the possibility of visiting the Shadow Lands, the setting of many horror tales from her childhood, the country of sorcerers with the dark city of Asshai with no children in it... But she definitely didn't want to go there in the company of Euron Greyjoy and his pirate fleet, as a captive. She felt she wasn't going to like her fate in this case.

Blacktyde, it seemed, had the same feeling. His painful grimace said it all.

"Is Crow's Eye going to raid the Shadow Lands?" she asked again in her squeaking voice.

"Meg, the less you think of it, the better. No."

 _If he isn't too pleased with Euron... I might convince him to turn away!_ The thought, she realized, wasn't as crazy as it seemed. There were going to be storms. Ships always got lost during storms, even she knew that, with no experience of sailing. If Euron Greyjoy was so determined to go to the Shadow Lands, he wouldn't bother searching for the  _Nightflyer –_ clearly, it wasn't the best ship of the fleet. 

"But why, then, is he going there? Essos is so far away, m'lord! We'll all die of hunger!"

The man mumbled something unintelligible. Inwardly, Arya groaned. Why had she been able to provoke _Tywin Lannister_ to talk to her so freely, and now couldn't handle a green youth like Blacktyde?

 _In bed, men are usually more talkative and agreeable..._ she thought, remembering what she had often heard from the older serving girls at Harrenhal. But this was something she certainly  _wasn't_ going to do, not of her own free will, not even to convince Blacktyde to desert Euron.

"Crow's Eye doesn't like you much, m'lord, as it is," she said quietly, sitting on the wooden chest. "What will he do with you in the Shadow Lands? What if he makes you stay there?"

Blacktyde gritted his teeth.

"You must miss the Reach, m'lord," Arya continued. "If you just could go..."

"Enough!" he snapped, and immediately dropped his voice to a whisper:

"Crow's Eye has ears everywhere. It won't do."

"There's a storm coming, you said so," Arya whispered too. "He'll think the  _Nightflyer_ was lost in a storm..."

Blacktyde abruptly stood up and grabbed her by the collar.

"Shut your bloody mouth!" he hissed. "Most of the crew is loyal to Euron. They'll cut me to pieces if they suspect me of rebelling! I won't even mention what they'll do to  _you_! If you value your life, Meg,  _keep quiet_!"

Arya sighed and looked down. Judging by what she had witnessed on the  _Silence_ , cutting to pieces was a literal expression on these ships.

"Perhaps the Shadow Lands aren't so bad," said Blacktyde. She didn't know whether he was trying to reassure her or himself. "Euron  _might_ leave me there, as – well – a lord of the colony, but they might not be so bad..."

"I don't want to live there," said Arya.

"Nobody's asking us... you, I mean. Meg, listen, you talk way too much for your own good. You're lucky Euron gave you to me, anyone else would have chopped your tongue off already."

"Yes, m'lord, thank you."

There was a long silence.

"Go to sleep, Meg," Blacktyde said finally. "Panicking won't protect anyone. Help me take off my coat."

This explained Beron's strange reluctance to answer her question about the Islands. This explained the fact that the Islands weren't even to be seen after so many days of sailing, even though they were relatively close to Lannisport.

Arya tossed and turned during the night, hardly getting any sleep, and the rocking wasn't the reason for that. Leaving Westeros completely was something she hadn't expected or predicted at all. She had figured that since Euron had bothered to return and proclaim himself ruler of the ironborn, he'd go on sacking towns on the shore like the ironborn used to do in the old times. 

 _I can't even pass any message to anyone in Westeros!_ she thought desperately.  _No ship is turning back, and no ravens know the way from the Shadow Lands – not to mention that we don't have ravens here!_

She cursed herself for ignoring Martyn's warnings and staying to fight that night. She didn't even help much in that battle, and now she couldn't help anyone – either the hungry people of the Westerlands, left without their ruling lady, or her family and friends at the Wall. She wasn't even able to help herself.

The wind did indeed grow into a storm during the night. Arya woke up when she fell down from the chest and rolled across the floor. The box with Mullendore's letters nearly hit her on the head as it fell off the table – Arya could barely catch it.

Blacktyde wasn't in the cabin – judging by the noise and pounding she heard from the deck, he was there already. Out of the window, she saw the formerly grey sea was nearly white with foam.

_I wish I hadn't talked about getting lost in a storm so lightheartedly. I can only hope it's not going to happen to us for real..._

Clutching Needle in one hand, she held on to the chest with another – as she discovered, the chest was attached to the floor by a chain, most probably precisely for these occasions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case: the herb names used in Beron's recipe are real ("royal herb" is basil, "black maidenhair" is _Adiantum capillus-veneris_ , "muskroot" is _Adoxa moschatellina_ ), the recipe is entirely fictional and only vaguely based on real medical uses for the herbs.


	38. Chapter 38

Another open-air audience had just ended in Highgarden. The visitors of all ranks, from lords down to peasants, slowly left, of course, not before treating themselves to sweetmeats or fruit from a lavishly laden long table. Unlike many lords, the Tyrells let everyone know they didn't feed people with promises only. 

"The last lad, poor guy, couldn't believe I'll give him back that grove," said Willas, leaning back in his folding chair – it was also used to move him during pain attacks in his leg. He sipped on the water from a flagon close by and rinsed his dried mouth. 

"Well, considering Lord Tarly threw him out without even listening to him..." Guisbert shrugged. Willas grimaced and nodded: in wartime, Lord Tarly's talents were indispensable, but as a man he was a nightmare – both for commoners and for his own overlords. 

Guisbert Fossoway, the steward of Highgarden, had been Willas's friend since childhood. They studied together, had training fights together and made mischief together (Olenna Tyrell still remembered that prank with the leaky barrel...). After the Tyrell heir had been crippled at the tourney, Guisbert sat at his bedside by day and night, and then he promised Willas would always be able to lean on him – in the literal as well as figurative sense. 

Formally, Guisbert wasn't needed during audiences – every time he appeared there, Willas stared at him in surprise and said how unexpected it was, and proceeded to drop several thinly-veiled hints that the steward had other duties. But Fossoway pretended he didn't get it, and not only did he sit through every audience, but he also interrupted it, trying to suggest the harshest decisions possible. 

The kinder and more naive visitors whispered among themselves how the wicked Fossoway manipulated the nice heir of Highgarden. The more clever and ambitious ones tried to pull Guisbert into a plot against the Tyrells, to which he inevitably agreed.

An astonishing coincidence: all such plots got exposed before being put into action.

"For the next audience, we'll have to use nothing but the drinks and some simple scones," Willas said sadly, twirling an empty nutshell on his finger. "We can't afford to waste fruit like this anymore."

"Well, when they hear it's for the army's sake, they'll only be proud of their sacrifice," smiled Guisbert.

"You can offer to remove the tables completely. I will naturally refuse: I mean, how can we be so unwelcoming?" 

"Rest assured, I'll play it out. The provisions for the army are almost fully prepared. When is your father finally marching?"

"No later than in ten days, but the real command will go to Garlan," Willas looked at the nutshell gravely and snapped it in two. Only Guisbert, his brothers and Margaery knew what a torture it was for him... or maybe – probably – Grandma was aware of it too. Now that all grown-up men from Great Houses – even the monstrous Tyrion! – left for the Wall, Willas suffered from his helplessness as much as in the first days after that ill-fated tourney. "All right, we'll talk of it later," he added, seeing that Guisbert was about to say something comforting. "Any news from the neighbors?"

"A raven came from Casterly Rock," said Guisbert. "Shall I go bring the letter? Or do you want to rest?"

"Better bring it. Father and Grandma hinted several times it would be good to marry me to the Queen," Willas cringed. "I'll only have more trouble if I put it off."

The vassals of Reach who were currently in King's Landing sent all sorts of alarming news about Cersei. They said she had gone soft in the head after King Joffrey had left for the North. They said she only trusted the pretty young lickspittles who surrounded her at court. They said many things, but Cersei Lannister remained the king's mother and Tywin's daughter, and the importance of a possible marriage to her couldn't be overrated.

"Will you really marry her if they tell you so?" asked Guisbert.

"I'll have to. But I certainly won't be living with her, so it won't be all bad. Nobody needs us to have children: on the contrary, such children can be a problem if they grow up and start fighting Joffrey and Tommen. Oh, and if what Stannis Baratheon's telling everyone is the truth..."

"Do you believe such nonsense?"

"Cersei's children are really blond-haired, hard to argue with that, and Robert's bastards have black hair, and I won't be surprised by anything that comes from the Lannisters. Well, so if I catch her with her brother or whoever it is she's frolicking with, I'll have a very advantageous divorce, and the lions' reputation will be blackened forever."

Guisbert chuckled: his friend, it seemed, had thought of every possibility.

He went to the maester and fetched the letter that arrived shortly before the start of the audience.

Willas broke the seal and quickly looked through the lines. His mouth opened in astonishment, he read more carefully.

"Damn and blast it!" he hissed.

"What's the matter?" Guisbert asked anxiously.

"Crow's Eye has raided Lannisport, slaughtered almost the whole city watch, that's not counting the commoners, and Arya Stark has disappeared."

Guisbert stood up, trying to keep down the panic. If Euron Greyjoy managed to raid the best-protected town of the Westerlands, the pampered lands of the Reach would be an easy prey for him.

"I'll start writing letters at once. We need to warn everyone who lives on the coast," said Willas and groaned: as usual, his knee hurt when he was seriously worried.

"Do you want milk of the poppy?"

"Absolutely not! I need a clear head. Come on."

"You remember, Lord Hightower wrote that he strengthened his defense just after Crow's Eye proclaimed himself king..." Guisbert rolled the chair towards the doors of the keep.

"And we thought, back then, that there was no hurry," Willas said through gritted teeth. "How can we divide our army now?"

"The main thing is to order all non-fighting people to move away from the sea!"

"Guisbert, we have to hurry but not to go crazy with it. At least your New Barrel is far from the coast, and you needn't worry about your people. First, we need to warn the bannermen, second, we've got to decide how to reply to the Lannisters. They're asking for help, you recall they don't have a fleet."

At the door, they were already met by a pudgy old lady with sharp, piercing eyes:

"Something serious in the Westerlands?"

Willas and Guisbert exchanged a look.

"I won't even ask, Grandma, about when you learned of it. Yes, it's very serious. Here's the letter, read it; I would be grateful for your advice..."

 

A blizzard was starting at the Wall. Prickly snowflakes blinded everyone's sight, it was impossible to light a fire without protecting it with an armful of branches, and the wind howled like a hungry direwolf.

But even in the wind one could hear the voices of the Lord Commander and his steward, arguing in the yard of Castle Black.

"Do you think you're the only one like this on the Wall? Almost every sworn brother has family and friends left in the south."

"Yes, but my sister is..."

"The Lady of Casterly Rock? It doesn't change anything. Remember the vows..."

"The White Walkers take them! Right now, every fighter counts, you won't kill me for deserting even if you catch me."

A pause followed – the argument was valid enough. Indeed, the punishments in the Night's Watch had got much lighter after it became clear how desperate the black brothers' situation was. Several men had tried to escape already, one got nearly as far as the Last Hearth, but Jeor Mormont merely ordered to whip them and throw them for several weeks into the ice cells.

"We've spent so much time convincing the southerners to come to our aid, and you're suggesting we leave the Wall ourselves," the Lord Commander finally said. "Snow... Jon, you think nobody understands you? You think I'm happy to know my sister and niece are going to fight Crow's Eye and I'm sitting here? I would have gladly given the command to someone else and joined their party. But if I do it and then you do it, everyone will want to follow the example. Why do the Lord Commander and his steward have the right and we don't? In the end, only the wildlings will remain here."

"But, my lord..."

"Enough. Maybe the Walkers are just waiting for us to go south after all!"

"Had they been thinking like this, they'd have attacked ages ago!"

Jon Snow looked at the Old Bear desperately. Jeor Mormont's eyes held compassion for him, but nevertheless, it was obvious he wouldn't relent.

_I wish the Watch had remained a useless crowd of petty criminals, protecting the Wall from a few dozen wildlings. I could have run away easily. Sam would have covered for me, and it would be a while until the Old Bear found out..._

No, it was nothing like how he had imagined defending the Seven Kingdoms from the horrors of the Lands of Always Winter. In his dreams he was, of course, on the Wall or even beyond it, with Benjen and some other brave brothers-at-arms at his side, and together they cut the attacking monsters to pieces. But south of the Wall everything stayed the same in this fantasy – a quiet, peaceful Winterfell, Father, Arya, Robb, everyone, even Lady Catelyn, alive and well at home, waiting for the news from the heroic Watch...

_I wouldn't have helped Father in time, even if I tried it. But Arya! She might still be saved!_

When he got the news that his little sister had been married to Tywin Lannister, Jon almost bolted to the south – to rescue her and have a word with the Old Lion and with Robb as well. Thankfully, her own letter arrived that was written after the wedding and reconciled him a little with the situation. He even laughed a little, imagining the plucky little Arya who managed to impress Lord Tywin himself.

Then Bran and Rickon were captured by the ironborn. But the latter were demanding a ransom, and Lord Mormont together with Maester Aemon managed to convince Jon his brothers would be saved anyway, which was what eventually happened.

But now everything was a lot worse. A raven from the Rock came to Winterfell: Arya had vanished without a trace after Euron Greyjoy's attack on Lannisport... A messenger from Winterfell (Robb had difficulties with ravens without Maester Luwin to help him) rode to the Wall with this news, and now no assurances or condolences had any effect on Jon.

Arya, dear sister... Was she alive? He wanted to hope she was – Jon had read somewhere that family members feel it when one of them dies; he remembered – or convinced himself he remembered – he had an ill feeling of sorts when Father was beheaded. Besides, Arya – that he could be sure of – was incredibly steadfast and resilient, she got hardened over the War of the Five Kings. This Harrenhal story alone was a sign of that!

...All well and good, but Tywin Lannister, however cruel, wasn't a madman. Crow's Eye and his ironborn, though...

Jon gritted his teeth, barely restraining himself from rushing off right now, stealing the first available horse and spurring it on to the west. In this weather he wouldn't be able to get far anyway.

"Hey, kneeler!" a quiet voice called him.

He turned around. The strange figure was hardly distinguishable in the blizzard, and with the wind's roar, it was hard to discern whether the voice was male or female.

"Hey, kneeler! You want to go to look for your sister? It could be arranged."


	39. Chapter 39

“Today is her thirteenth birthday,” Mother whispered, staring out of the window.

Sansa felt her throat tighten. Their artificial idyll at Riverrun had been shattered for good after the nightmarish news came about Arya – who, as everyone had previously believed, was safer than most in the holdfast of the Rock. Mother had fainted when she read the letter, and since then she had been in a trance-like state, only making sure that Sansa was at her side the entire time. Uncle Brynden had to persuade her all over again to let the boys leave. 

"She is probably alive," Sansa said, trying to sound convinced. "I mean, she got from King's Landing to Harrenhal when everyone thought her a peasant! Now that she's Lady of Casterly Rock..."

"Well then, has anyone got any demands for ransom?" cried Mother. "If the ironborn had taken her prisoner, even they wouldn't have resisted milking the North and the Westerlands for all their worth. But there's silence. Nothing! Nothing at all!"

"But they've taken Raynald Lannister too, and they haven't asked for his ransom either..."

"Sansa, they plundered Lannisport already, they know there won't be anything of value in that town! Besides, Lord Tywin wouldn't care for a distant cousin like Raynald, but he would have cared if they took Arya."

"Well, maybe she is alive and somewhere in the Westerlands," Sansa suggested. 

"Sansa!" Mother snapped through tears. "Arya wasn't anxious to be a lord's wife, but she won't run away like this, when she knows we have enough grief as it is!" she sobbed.

"Wait, Mother, I don't mean she ran away. Maybe the Lannisters threw her out by themselves and are only pretending she disappeared during the attack."

"No, Sansa, it can't be. Don't you remember how they put it when you were in King's Landing?.. Oh, but of course, you were in King's Landing. So, while you were there, Cersei spread the word that both you and Arya were safe in the Red Keep. If Genna Lannister, or whoever it is who's in power at the Rock while the Old Lion's away – if Genna had thrown Arya out or locked her up, or if Arya had run away by herself, Genna would have kept silent as a stone."

"But not if there is – conveniently – an ironborn attack on Lannisport," said Sansa. "Do you think Genna cares for our family feelings?"

Mother shut her eyes to prevent tears from pouring out again:

"I don't know... I can't believe she has none of her own... She has four children, she wouldn't..." 

But Sansa had already let go of the idea:

"Actually, I think we'll have to believe Genna here. She wouldn't have tried to trick her brother like this. It was one thing last year, when Arya was nothing to him, but now that she is his wife, you said yourself: he cares for her, if only because of her Lannister name. I don't think even his sister can send him false alarms of that nature and get away with it," Sansa sighed. "Oh, Mother, please forgive me. I think this wasn’t comforting."

"I’ve had enough comforting from everyone else. It’s not comforting I need. Sansa…” Mother raised her eyes. It seemed she had pondered whether to go through with something and made her decision at last. “I want us to go to the Westerlands.”

For a moment, Sansa thought she hadn’t heard it properly:

“To the Wes… what? But Robb said we were to stay here!”

“He didn’t allow us to go further north, but the last time I saw him, he never mentioned anything specific about the south.”

“But… why? If Arya is captive…”

“That’s the thing!” Mother stood up and paced the room anxiously. “In the letter, it’s mentioned they can’t be sure and she might be somewhere in the villages, unrecognized, maybe with a memory loss! In that case, who can find her sooner than us? We’ll know her anywhere, and if she has problems with her memory, she is more likely to remember us than some random servants from the Rock!”

Sansa was still astonished at her decision:

“So you’ve… you’ve made up your mind to go?”

“On one condition,” Mother stopped and looked at her. “That you come with me. You are… you are the only one I have left.”

“What about Roslin?” Sansa asked hesitantly.

“Roslin?”

“She will want to go, too.”

“But she doesn’t know Arya. She hasn’t seen her at all.”

“Well, anyway, it won’t do any harm to take her with us, right? Mother,” Sansa said softly, “I know what it’s like to be completely alone in a strange castle. Even though there’s no Joffrey here anymore, thankfully, Roslin will be scared stiff if we leave her here.”

After a short while, Mother nodded:

“All right. She is a nice girl, and I will be glad to have her with us… even if she won’t be of much help in the search.”

“Shall I ask the maester to send a raven to Lady Genna?”

“No,” Mother said quickly.

“Mother? Are you still suspecting it can all be Genna’s doing?”

“No… well… perhaps a little. But it’s not just that. If we write of our arrival in advance, they will be all bright and ready and welcoming. The last thing I need is the lions’ fancy hospitality.”

She took Sansa’s hand:

“Sansa… dear Sansa… please, don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going to,” Sansa assured her.

“I know you will be married one day as well, because this is how it happens, but promise at least that it won’t be too soon. You’re the only one I have left,” she repeated.

“Oh, Mother!” Sansa hugged her, suddenly realizing she had grown almost as tall as her. “Don’t say it like this! You haven’t lost your children, not really. The boys are alive and well and kicking, and Arya, I just know it, will also turn up alive! I promise, soon we’ll all be sitting together in a family circle, as you call it, and Roslin will be heavy with Robb’s child, and Arya will throw cream at me, and I… I might even throw some back at her,” she laughed through tears.

“Sansa, my dearest little girl,” Mother kissed her cheek. “Let’s now go and tell Roslin about our journey. She might need some more convincing.”

“I don’t think so. The poor girl has never had a good and reasonably small family, so she’ll follow us to Asshai-by-the-Shadow if we ask her.”

“Well, if Arya could be in Asshai-by-the-Shadow, I would have set off east long ago,” Mother sighed.

As they walked through the room, she pointed to a glimmer of yellow on Sansa’s chair:

“What’s that over here?”

“Oh,” Sansa felt blood rush to her cheeks (for no reason at all). “Um. This – I just wanted to sew a handkerchief – a favor for… um… the king.”

“The king?” Mother stared at her. “You wanted to give _that creature_ a favor?”

She picked up the half-finished handkerchief.

“Yes, so that he won’t go crazy again before the army leaves, but then the news of Arya arrived, and I never really finished it,” Sansa said hurriedly.

“Please, Sansa, I don’t know what’s worse in this world: to hear you lie or to hear you lie so clumsily. Joffrey was under control, thanks to Lord Tyrion frightening the daylights out of him. Even if he wasn’t, you wouldn’t have sewn him a handkerchief. Besides, this black thing you’ve started embroidering is… I’m not sure what it is, but it’s not any part of the Baratheon stag.”

Sansa sighed. She had still kept the details of her life in King's Landing to herself: Mother had enough troubles as it was.

"I wanted... um, in fact it was a dog. I wanted to give it to the Hound – silly, I know."

"Sansa, _what's_ the matter with you?" now Mother looked really alarmed: she seemed to believe that Sansa started to go insane after everything they had been through.

"Mother, it's fine – I'm fine. I just felt sorry for the Hound, that nobody would give him a favor – even Lord Tyrion got some trinket from Shae! I mean... the Hound... he is not half as bad as they say. He was... compared to Joffrey and the rest... very kind to me in the capital."

"It's hard not to be very kind compared to Joffrey," Mother said doubtfully. "Well, the man did keep the secret about the warging, I'll give him that... Still, Sansa, I'm glad you didn't finish the handkerchief."

"It's true: we heard about Arya, and then I thought it was foolish and the Hound doesn't care for favors and such anyway..."

"Not just that, my dear. You see, in the songs, well, ladies give favors to their trusted servants, and their old friends, and many others, but nowadays – since you are flowered and unwed, and he's not even our bannerman or any relation, and it's not a tourney – a favor is often a sign of something more than friendship or gratitude."

"Oh, I didn't think of that! I only felt it right that he should have something with him before he leaves for the north, not that..."

"Sansa, I understand. It's more my advice for the future," Mother stroked her hair. "Now, do you know where we can find Roslin?"

Just as Sansa had predicted, Roslin readily agreed to go to the Westerlands.

"I think... I think I'll help you a little, my ladies!" she said excitedly. "Lord Emmon is my stepbrother, he might treat you better if you have me with you!"

"We'll hope he will," Mother said vaguely. Later, when Roslin went to her room to pack, she said:

"In fact, we'll hope he  _won't_. From what I know, Genna Lannister makes a point of doing everything against her husband's wishes just out of spite, and as it's her who is in power, Emmon's helpfulness is the last thing we need."

"You've told me that the Freys normally hate each other," Sansa smiled. "I doubt Emmon will even admit to being one if he sees Roslin."

Their journey was prepared... not exactly in secrecy, more like in silence. The only ones informed of all its details were Maester Vyman, the steward Utherydes Wayn, and the master-at-arms Ser Grell. Lord Hoster (Sansa couldn't find it in herself to call him grandfather – how can you call that someone who doesn't even know you?) was told of it by Mother, but in his delirium, Sansa doubted he understood anything at all.

"Is it safe to leave Riverrun like this?" she asked Mother cautiously. "Lord Hoster in such a state, and everyone else is so _old_! The maester, the steward, Ser Grell, the captain, everyone!"

"In case anything happens, the... replacements have all been arranged for," Mother said. "I wouldn't have wanted to leave, Sansa, and you know it, least of all for Casterly Rock! But if there is a chance – even a small one – that we can find Arya..." she bit her lip and looked down.

They left early in the morning, with a relatively small escort – Mother was firm the garrison of Riverrun shouldn't dwindle because of them, and she was set on getting to the Westerlands as quickly as possible. It was surprisingly cold – Sansa never knew the wind could be so biting this far south – with a drizzling rain, but the river road, tended by the lords of both the Riverlands and the west, was still very easy to take. In the evening of the same day, Sansa saw the lights of the Golden Tooth ahead of them already.

To say that Lady Alysanne Lefford was amazed to see them would be to say nothing at all. At first, the guards of the Golden Tooth panicked because they were afraid of the Starks breaching the peace. Then Lady Lefford (a plump, nervous middle-aged woman with big, lamb-like eyes) had to be assured that Lady Catelyn Stark didn't blame  _her_ or Lord Leo for Arya's disappearance. Then she got the surreal idea that Catelyn and her daughter were somehow sent by Tywin to check the Leffords' loyalty to Casterly Rock.

"I have read that the Lannisters had stolen extensively from the Tooth, and thought it strange that the Leffords didn't fight back or anything," Sansa smiled, as they settled in the huge guest bedroom. "But if they have always been like this... no wonder."

It took them three more days to reach Casterly Rock. The castle, with its top hidden in the heavy rainclouds, looked terribly intimidating even from afar.  _How could Arya even live there?_ Sansa thought, staring at this mass of stone as it gradually got closer.

However, Mother's idea of surprise arrival had been thwarted. Probably, Lady Lefford or old Lord Sarsfield had sent a messenger ahead of them, because when they got close to the main gate (appropriately named the Lion's Mouth), they saw a crowd in red and yellow lined up to greet them, with a huge (no other word seemed fitting) golden-haired woman in the center.


	40. Chapter 40

"Welcome, Lady Stark," said Genna Lannister with a broad smile. "And you, of course, must be Lady Sansa. It's a pleasure to meet you. What brings you to the Rock, and in such weather, too?"

"Lady Lannister," Mother tried to keep her calm, at least, "Don’t pretend you don’t know what it is. I've come to look for my younger daughter."

Genna's smile didn't fade:

"Naturally. Please, come inside. I'm afraid you'll have to deal with me alone; my nephew Willem is wounded, and my good-sister Lady Dorna is always at his bedside..."

"What about Lord Emmon?" Roslin piped in (Sansa tugged at her sleeve, but it was too late). "I'm his sister."

"Lady Roslin! Now  _this_ is a surprise," Genna said as she ushered them inside. Sansa glanced uncomfortably at the huge stone teeth above her. Were they stalactites, picked from some deep caves, or had they been here all the time? She shuddered.

"Emmon isn't here, he's with the search party."

"The search party?" Mother asked.

"Do you think I'd wait for you to come here and remind me Lady Arya's missing? I sent out my men as quickly as I could. Emmon and my other nephew Martyn are in charge of them."

"But will they be able to find her?" Mother exclaimed. "I'm sure you'll agree Sansa and I know her better than your relatives."

"Maggy, get something to be served in the Velvet Room," Genna turned to an elderly woman with a dignified look about her – Sansa thought her to be another relative or a bannerman's wife, and was surprised to realize she was a servant. "Something light for the ladies. There are still some hours before dinner."

"If Sansa and I could join..." Mother went on.

"Oh, and make sure their guards and servants get proper guest rooms."

"I was saying that as I would recognize my daughter..." irritated, Mother spoke louder.

"Such things are to be discussed calmly, preferably at the table. Certainly not on the doorstep. Don't stare at me like that, Lady Stark, I'm not going to poison any of you.'

Maggy bowed and left, her step almost fully noiseless. Sansa swallowed nervously. Her first impression was that Genna was just an older, fatter, taller version of the queen, but now she saw it was different. Genna wasn't... she wasn't _trying_ to seem kind. Or rather... she wasn't doing it like Cersei. It looked like her hospitality was actually genuine. She wasn't making it up... she was just keeping something more behind it.

"It's strange, now, that two sisters would be so different," Genna had turned to her as they began to walk up some enormous stairway (Sansa was desperate to know if there was something in this castle that wasn't enormous). "You look like your mother, Lady Sansa."

Well, this was something she was more used to.

"Everyone tells me that, my lady," she smiled.

"You've got the North in you, too, however," Genna observed. "They say that you can't take the sea out of an ironborn's eyes, well, I think it's the same with the North and the Northmen."

_What might she be getting at?_

"I hope so, my lady."

"Well. Extra-ordi-nary. Different like the sun and the moon. I'm a bit poetic when I'm angry," Genna concluded suddenly as they came into a thinly-lit room with a laden table. 

"Angry?" Mother repeated.

"Of course," her smile finally fading, Genna sat at the head of the table. "Do sit. Help yourselves to the salad. It's not much, but now that we have to share with Lannisport, we have to get even more economic."

Sansa dutifully dug her fork into the green leaves, slightly sprinkled with oil. 

"I'm very angry about the attack, and the deaths, and Arya's abduction," Genna continued, chewing on the salad so furiously Sansa heard the crunching. "That's why I think that your coming here won't help matters, and that's putting it mildly."

"What?" cried Mother. "Why? I have told you..."

"My dear Lady Stark, I also have children, so don't think I don't understand you. That doesn't change my point. You came here in a panic, and panic is what we must  _not_ show."

"Show? To whom? Lady Lannister, the whole land is under threat, and you're still thinking of how you show yourselves!"

"Certainly I do. The people need to see that their lords stay calm and collected. There is nothing calm and collected in rushing to the Rock, when Arya isn't even there."

"Are you sure?"

"She ran off to battle in a page's clothes, so we searched the castle first thing, from top to bottom, in case she was somewhere, suffering from a memory loss and brought in along with the servants."

"That's what I think might have happened!" Mother exclaimed. "If she's in the villages and doesn't remember who she is... she might have wounds and dirt on her face... your men won't recognize her!"

"Well, Emmon, of course, won't recognize his own reflection, but Martyn's another thing. First, he has been Arya's best friend around here ever since he and Willem came back from Riverrun, second, as an archer, he's got the eyesight of an eagle. If, for some reason, he is not sure, Maester Creylen and Septa Erlicah will examine the girl. They have treated Arya."

"Treated?" Mother was alert at once. "Was she ill?"

"It happens after a heavy dinner followed by running up and down from the training-yard above to the Lion's Mouth below," Genna pursed her lips.

"Still, there's one thing I can't get. Why can't Sansa and I join your search? You don't like us coming here, but we _are_ here now."

"You might deceive yourselves," said Genna. "I told you I understand your feelings, didn't I? If it had been my child, I also would have wanted her to be somewhere in the villages close by rather than dead or prisoner to Crow's Eye. If you spot a girl that looks like her – neither Emmon nor even Martyn will dare to doubt a mother's instinct or whatever it's called..."

"Are you saying I will mistake another child for my Arya?!"

"It's often that we see what we  _want_ to see. Many people I know make that error all the time."

"Not in such cases, I'm sure!"

"I'm not sure, Lady Stark, not sure at all. You haven't seen your daughter in two years. When you see a dark-haired girl around her age, your mind will help your eyes..."

"Lady Lannister, you are talking nonsense!" Mother stood up. "You should be ashamed..."

"I _know_ how it happens. After Robert's Rebellion, the husband of one of our servants came home, wounded, bruised, and in rags. Or so we thought. In about a year – the woman had already had a child – the real husband turned up after a deal of adventures in Dorne, and the previous one was revealed to be his friend. There was a pretty little scandal. Tywin ordered the friend to be shipped to the Wall, and his little son along with him."

"Didn't the wife know?" Sansa asked.

"She told us she didn't. The husband was willing to keep her, so she got away with the usual six lashes."

“I don’t believe it,” said Mother. “She probably just didn’t like her husband so much.”

“It wasn’t just her,” Genna pointed out. “The neighbors and friends were taken in. We were taken in!”

“Still, with one’s own child, it’s different.”

“How can you be certain? Word has already got out that you have come to search for your daughter. You see a thin girl… a bit taller than Arya, but then she must have grown… probably with a bruised, dirty face… eyes and hair of roughly the same color – and the hair could have changed, especially since she had cut it after fleeing King’s Landing… and the girl stares at you in vague recognition and whispers: ‘Mama? Sansa?’”

Sansa was astonished: when she imagined them finding the real Arya, she pictured the scene in almost the same way. She heard Mother gasp. 

“She has been hit on the head, she says, and remembered nothing. Some commoners nursed her back to health. Every now and then, she remembered something about – here she tells you a pack of well-known facts about your family – but now that she saw you, the first definite memory came back. You will see that she does have the same chin, or the same shape of the hands, or the same tilt of the head. She only has to bruise her face enough to make the features unrecognizable enough, and in exchange she will get several months or years of luxury and care at the Rock. When Tywin returns from the war, she will probably run away – I don’t think she’ll dare to deceive him. Or, who knows, if by that time she believes her own lie…”

“Stop that, Lady Lannister,” Mother said firmly. “It might have happened to you, perhaps, but it would be impossible to trick me like this. I have washed and clothed my children. I have brushed their hair. I have spent hours with them.”

“I don’t doubt that. If a red-haired, blue-eyed common girl walked in right now and tried to tell you she was the real Lady Sansa who had changed places with this one in King’s Landing and lost her memory, you wouldn’t have been fooled for a moment. You have the one and true original by your side. As for Lady Arya, we don’t even roughly know where she is! You are uncertain, and you hope, and your heart overrules all your senses. A frightening combination. I would advise you to go back to Riverrun and wait there. Do you think we’ll keep the news to ourselves if Arya’s found? Her disappearance is a shadow over the Lannister name.”

Mother groaned:

“Lady Lannister, do you ever think of anything beyond the Lannister name and how it looks?”

“I do. I have grown to like Arya, incidentally. She could be terribly unruly, but at least she has never bored me. I want her to be found alive and well – her, not some quick-thinking fisherman’s daughter. Martyn knows Arya well enough to recognize her, but he’s not that fond of her and won’t allow himself to be easily tricked.”

She had said Martyn had been Arya’s best friend, and now she was saying he wasn’t that fond of her… Were these Lannisters completely incapable of affection? 

Suddenly, Sansa felt a stab of conscience: she remembered her own friend Jeyne Poole. She hadn’t even bothered to enquire about her, because back then, she had still trusted Queen Cersei and taken it for granted that Jeyne was safe… and afterwards, there was Father’s murder, and Jeyne’s absence was pushed into the back of her mind.

“All right,” said Mother in the meantime, “if you insist the Westerlands are full of clever girls who happen to look like Arya and are lying in wait for your search party, we will go in disguise as well.”

Genna almost choked on her salad:

“What?”

“I will dress up as a septa, for instance, and Sansa can play the part of Arya’s maidservant. You’ve just said it yourself that people see what they want to see. Even the smartest of the local girls won’t know who we really are if we aren’t dressed as ladies. Sansa and I aren’t known to anyone personally.”

“Mother, but won’t it be a little…” Sansa stopped, searching for a word. Wild? Strange? Unacceptable? But then, Arya had been dressed as a peasant – a peasant boy, for a while! – and it saved her life…

“Sansa, it may be our only chance.”

“Well!” Genna whistled. “You really are much more similar to Arya than it seems. All right, Emmon and Martyn will return closer to the evening, and on the following morning, you’ll set off with them. Your guards will join the group, too, on the condition that they put on red cloaks.”

“Why is that necessary?” Mother scowled. But Sansa had already spotted the idea:

“If we are to hide our presence – as Lady Lannister believes we must – we can’t have Stark and Tully guards. They will give us away as quickly as our dresses.”

“Precisely,” said Genna. “Are you sure you won’t have more salad? Then, I think, Maggy will show you your bedrooms.”

Even though she was still amazed with Genna’s impostor theories and her own plan, Mother tried to return to the normal polite manner:

“Perhaps we should pay a visit to your nephew? I thought him and his brother very nice boys back in Riverrun.”

“I wouldn’t advise you to do it. He hates the Starks with a passion as it is, and his wounds didn’t improve his mood.”

“Did he have problems with Arya?”

“She beat him at swords mere days after their arrival,” Genna chuckled. “‘Problems’ sounds too mild, but I assure you, your daughter was more than able to handle them herself.”


End file.
